Misery Loves Company (26 page)

Together they hobbled toward the door, both of them growling through their own pain. He got her to the sled and nearly dropped her into it. She bit her lip as if holding in a scream. But after a moment, she nodded that she was okay.

Chris picked up the rope in one hand and pointed his gun outward with the same hand, whipping it back and forth, looking for any small movement. He would probably shoot first and ask questions second, but he couldn’t pull her and point the gun at the same time. He was going to have to make a choice.

In the snow, his toes had gone completely numb. A lot of things were going numb, including the arm that had been shot. He was having trouble holding the gun. Within moments, he had to drop it. He looked ahead, focusing on the truck.

“Jules,” he whispered, “grab that gun.”

She nervously reached for it and tucked it close to her.

He moved them swiftly down the small hill and toward the truck. Once they reached it, Chris gasped for breath that was harder and harder to get. His lungs felt like they’d shrunk to half their size. He leaned against the passenger door for a moment, his body shivering from the cold and shaking from
the blood loss. Jules looked up at him, as if wondering how she was going to get in the truck.

He took as deep a breath as he could and stooped. “Put your arm around my neck.” It felt like the muscles in his back were going to snap right out of his skin as he lifted her. He accidentally banged her against the door but she managed to reach around him and open it. With fingers he could barely feel on his other hand, he grasped the edge and opened it wider.

He practically dumped her inside. With his good arm he helped her sit up and get situated.

“You okay?”

She touched his cheek gently and smiled through tears. “Yes.”

“Okay. Hang in there.” He shut the door and moved around the back of the truck, holding onto the rim of the bed, to get to the other side. His eyes were fixed on the dark wilderness, searching its shadows for Patrick or anyone else. Nothing moved but the lightly falling snow.

He got into the truck. Jules was leaning forward, searching the darkness too.

Chris touched her arm. “We have to go.”

“What about Patrick?”

“I don’t care about Patrick. I care about you.”

He turned the truck on and the heater blew through the cold, relaxing them both a little. He gripped the steering wheel so his hands wouldn’t shake.

Jules turned to him, putting her hand on his shoulder,
seeming to understand more than she could say. “Thank you . . .”

He smiled at her. Frankly he couldn’t believe they’d made it out alive. “We’ll drive down until we can get a cell phone signal, then call the police, okay?”

“I’m not going to press charges against him,” she said resolutely.

Now was not the time to argue that point.

“I know it sounds weird, but I think . . . I think this was all a gift.”

“I don’t know what that means. But I have to disclose everything in the report. We’re witnesses. I can’t lie for him. Or you. I hope you can understand that.”

“I understand,” she said, and she really seemed to.

The darkness seemed to grow thin against the emerging moon. Only wispy, haunting clouds floated by. He watched Jules. She was far away but peaceful.

“We need to get you medical attention, okay? We need to go.”

She nodded, whispered a quiet good-bye as if Reagan stood right there in front of the truck, and then she gently slipped her hand into his.

THE KIDNAPPING HAD
become legendary overnight. As soon as the police got to the cabin, so did the press. Finally they had found Patrick Reagan’s secret retreat. Pictures leaked out. It was breaking news on every channel. The private man she knew him to be was spoken of every five seconds every day for weeks.

Jules refused to do television interviews about her experience as Patrick’s hostage. But she hated the things that the news reported about him. So much of it was untrue. Speculation. He was grossly misrepresented in every way.

She wanted people to know the truth. And she had the perfect platform for it too.

When
Enoch
released with more fanfare than it could’ve ever had on its own merit, Jules decided to speak about Patrick, on her terms and in controlled environments. As she did readings and speaking engagements, she began to refer to him. Without giving much detail about her time with him, she spoke to his character. His kindness. His immense love for the craft of writing. And his knowledge of it too. She spoke of the changes she made to her manuscript, how she found her way to a deeper truth. She never took questions and maybe that added to the mystique. But like him, she had no interest in entering into the New York writing scene. She didn’t attend the many parties she was invited to. And since
Enoch
, she had not written another book.

But she wanted to.

It was an itch that wouldn’t go away. And it made her smile because she knew then that she was a real writer.

It was June and the weather hinted that it was ready to spread its warmth more consistently. Jules had been writing since before sunrise and had gotten up to stretch her legs and get coffee when she heard her father’s truck pull in. She opened the door and greeted him as he walked up the sidewalk.

“There’s my genius, famous, brilliant daughter!” His face lit with pure delight, and she wondered if there was anything better than seeing delight on a father’s face. He’d aged what seemed like ten years while she was gone that one week. But what she got in return was much better.

He hugged her tightly. “How’s my baby girl?”

“I’m really good, Daddy.”

“You got a signing or anything today?”

“Not today. Just speaking at the library this evening.”

“Glad you mentioned that. I won’t be able to make it to that one. They moved my AA meetings to Tuesdays for the rest of the month.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. I told you, you don’t have to come to everything. There’s too much!”

He cupped her face. “Don’t you know that it’s my favorite thing to do?”

“Come in,” she said, taking his hand. “You want some coffee? I was just taking a break.”

“Nah. I’m on my way to pick up Carla.” He grinned widely. He’d met Carla at one of her book signings. She was very different from Jules’s mother. Kind of homely, with long, gray hair that hinted there might be a hippie in her somewhere. But she was kind, and they shared a love for adventure and travel. They had a special connection, and Jules couldn’t even begin to resent it.

She winked at him. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”

“Just wanted to come by and check on you.” Inside his blue eyes, watery now with age, she saw that there would always be a fear in him that she might not be okay. She supposed that was the price of love. Along with it came constant fear that it would be torn from your arms. She’d risked it once, and all of her fears had come true. Somehow, she was still standing.

“All is well, Daddy.”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

She waved at her father as the FedEx truck came rumbling down the drive, passing her father’s truck on his way out. The deliveryman hopped out, carrying a medium-size box. “Good afternoon. Sign here,” he said, handing her a digital signature pad. Jules took the box from him, wondering what it could be. She hadn’t ordered anything that she could remember.

At her kitchen counter, she pulled the tab that opened the box. Inside, neatly bound, was a manuscript titled
The Living End
. By Patrick Reagan.

She stared at his name, breathless. She had hoped
 
—prayed, even
 
—that he would contact her. But as Christmas passed and winter faded into spring, she’d heard nothing and assumed that he had permanently disappeared.

The manuscript was thick. The paper, a heavier stock, was crisp, pure white. She put her hand on it as though she might be able to feel its heartbeat.

An envelope, sealed with a burgundy wax stamp with the fancy letter
R
, peeked out of the edge of the box. She’d almost missed it. Opening it carefully, she found a handwritten note.

Dear Juliet,

I was delighted to hear that you decided to release your novel under your real name. I was not certain Blake Timble and I would ever be acquainted as friends. But you, dear one, will always be my friend. I hold you in
high esteem and have resigned myself now that there are better writers in the world than I. Your talent is immense. I know you’ve found your destiny.

My destiny has come and gone. I know you will respect that I must go away. I want to live out my days alone and in peace, writing for myself, writing for the pure pleasure of it again. I realized over these past few months that I was attempting to write about a world I no longer understood. And maybe I no longer wished to understand it. I’ve become good at hiding from it. I thought that Amelia and I could live in solitude and enjoy each other and be everything to one another. Even if she had lived, I realized that she could never fulfill every need in my soul. It seems we were created to be filled by something
 
—Someone
 
—greater than ourselves. As much as Amelia loved me, she could not reach the bleakest corridors of my being. Perhaps more than the cancer, I ate away at her life by trying to keep her all to myself, by hiding from the very thing I sought to write about.

I suppose we understand each other, as your own journey took you to a closed and confined space where you peered out into the world through a tiny window. But maybe we can learn from each other as well. Maybe, unlike me, you can summon the courage to live openly, alongside this world, leaving the imprint of your existence on its dewy grass.

I hope I am one of those people you hold close to your heart when you sink below the surface of the ocean and delight in the way the light looks from a different perspective. I hope I have helped you not fear the waters of the deep.

Enclosed you will find my final novel, The Living End. I finished it to honor Jason. It is dedicated to you. There is nothing more raw or real than the unfinished and unpolished work of a writer. The world will see it clothed, but you have seen it laid bare.

I wish you the very best. You won’t be able to find me, but I will always be nearby. Warm regards.

Your biggest fan,

PR

“Jules?”

She gasped, looking up to find Chris standing in the doorway.

“Sorry . . . didn’t mean to startle you. The door was wide-open.”

Jules suddenly realized there was a draft, slightly fluttering the edges of the manuscript. She hadn’t even noticed. “Oh. Sorry. Come in,” she said, beckoning him with her hand.

He walked in and closed the door. “You look nice.”

“I feel a little haggard. I’ve been writing since 4 a.m.”

“
Haggard
does not and will not ever fit you.” He grinned and pecked her on the cheek. “You ready for lunch?”

She nodded but pointed to the manuscript sitting on the table. “It’s from Patrick.”

Chris looked at it, worry flickering through his eyes. “You didn’t think you’d ever hear from him again.”

“No, I didn’t.” She glanced at him. At the beginning of a relationship that started soon after he rescued her, they’d had to agree to disagree about Patrick. Chris didn’t understand what happened in the cabin. As far as he was concerned, Patrick Reagan was a lunatic.

“Have you read any of it?” he asked.

“No. Not . . . in a while. The letter says it’s his last book. That it was written to honor Jason.”

Jules looked at Chris for a long moment. They’d been through so much in the last six months. The cops involved in the theft ring were charged, which later led to the arrest of the men who shot Jason. Patrick had disappeared before the police got to the cabin. He would be arrested if they ever found him, even though Jules never pressed charges.

Jules had met with the prosecutor and agreed to testify on Jason’s behalf if they needed her. The ADA, Robert McKinnel, told her they had enough evidence to put them all behind bars for years, thanks to Jason’s work before he died and Patrick’s work after. Chris had been relieved to know that Greg Maecoat had not been involved in the ring. They returned to being partners after internal affairs cleared them both.

“You okay?” Chris asked.

She smiled through tears. “I am.”

Chris pulled her into a tight hug.

“Thanks for being here for me,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Look, don’t misunderstand. I’m totally in this for the cool factor of dating a famous writer.”

Jules laughed. She loved his sense of humor. She was beginning to love even more than that.

“Why don’t we go get you some comfort food. How many calories do you burn per page, you think? Enough to justify clam chowder made with real cream?”

“Enough for ice cream!” she said, clasping her hands together hopefully.

“Depends on how many times you hit that heavy Delete button.”

“Too many times to count.”

“Then it’s a double scoop for you!”

She laughed and he grabbed her hand, leading her toward the door.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” she said. “Let me get my purse.”

Chris walked out and Jules passed by the table on which the manuscript sat. She paused, the tips of her fingers brushing the top page, finding their way to the middle, hovering over his name.

And he was right.

She felt him nearby.