The Ridge

“Working?”

“That’s right. I’ve got some questions. It worked out that I was coming by, otherwise I’d have just made a phone call, but I figured…”

He let the lies stop there. Kimble tried hard to be as honest as any man born to sin could be, but he’d told his share of lies, enough to know that they were pointless when neither you nor the recipient believed them.

“But I figured I’d rather talk in person,” he finished.

“I’m always glad to see you. And the way you left the other day… well, I felt bad about it. It was as if you didn’t like the idea that I’m going to get back out.”

I’m going to get back out. Yes, she was. He stared at her and felt an ache along his back, down near the scar.

“You said you had questions?” she prompted when the silence had gone on too long and sat too heavy in the room.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a few. I doubt you’ll be able to help, but I had to try. I’m working a suicide, trying to find someone to come forward and deal with the dead man’s property, and I’m not finding anyone. Your name was written down in his things.”

“Who was it?”

“His name was Wyatt French.”

She gave it a few seconds. Shook her head.

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Kimble said, “I honestly don’t remember you lying to me before.”

She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. “You’re playing games with the truth yourself.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really? You already know that he came to see me. You didn’t want to admit that, though, so you waited to see if I’d tell you. But I’m the only liar?”

He thought that over and nodded. “Fine. We’re both lying. We haven’t done that before, have we? Even in the worst of it, Jacqueline, have you ever lied to me?”

“No.”

“Then let’s hold that pattern. Yes, I know that Wyatt visited you a couple of months ago. Now he’s dead. I’d like to know what you talked about.”

She said, “No, you would not.”

He frowned. “Jacqueline? What’s the story?”

She looked more uncomfortable than he’d ever seen her, more shaken.

“He’s dead?”

“That’s right. Shot himself in the mouth.”

She closed her eyes again.

Kimble leaned forward. “Please, Jacqueline. I want to know why he came to see you. Why he had your picture up in his damned lighthouse. Why he—”

“He had my picture up?” Now her eyes were open again.

“That’s right. Along with dozens of others. Many of whom… many of whom I didn’t recognize.”

A lie again. No, just a change of the truth he’d been about to tell. At the last instant he’d decided not to tell her that she’d shared wall space with photographs of other killers.

“He killed himself,” she said. The words came out slowly, as if she were carefully considering the idea.

“It appears that way, yes.”

She shook her head. “Sad.”

“Why did he come here, Jacqueline? How did you know him?”

She thought about it, frowning. While she thought, she wet her lips. He watched her tongue glide out, tracing the curve of her lips, and then, when she answered his question, he wanted to tell her not to be in such a hurry. Think more, he wanted to say, let me watch you just a little longer. Let me just sit here and be with you and not have to talk, not have to think, not have to remember how close you came to murdering me. I do not want to think about that. I want to remember you the way you were the first day, when you would never have shot me, and I would certainly have shot him for you.

But she didn’t need to think any longer; she had her answer.

“He wanted to apologize to me.”

“For what?”

“For the fact that his lighthouse was not functioning on a night in June of 2005.”

Kimble tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows. “You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“Why did he think this mattered to you?”

Another long pause. She reached up and pushed her hair back over her ears, carefully, one elegant hand moving at a time, and then she fastened her blue-eyed gaze on his and said, “I tried to kill myself that night.”

Kimble didn’t have a response. Couldn’t begin to muster one. He sat and stared at her as she watched him with detached sadness.

“I’ve never told anyone that, Kevin. Not a soul.”

June 2005. It would have been around the same time the abuse began, around the time Kimble had first gone out to the house, first met her.

“What happened?” he said.

“There’d been a… debate at home,” she said. “You remember the kind. I left and went for a drive. There was no destination. It was just a drive, the kind you make when you need to be moving, Kevin, moving fast. Ever taken that kind of a drive?”

“Once or twice.”

“Then you understand. There’s a curve out there, on the county road. It seems like you shouldn’t take it, but you have to. Go straight and you’re off the pavement and on the dead end. There’s a sign, but it was late at night, and I missed it.”

“Okay.” She’d been on Blade Ridge then, sailing right past Wyatt’s lighthouse.

“The road ends in the trees.”

“I know the spot.”

“Well, I hit the dead end, and I stopped. It was sunset. Not quite dark yet. A very beautiful sunset, in fact. The eastern face of the rocks was all lit up red, and the water had this beautiful shimmer. I could see the lighthouse up there, and it was so surreal. Beautiful but misplaced, you know? I got out of the car to look at it. I was all alone, and the sun was going down, and the insects were coming to life. Cicadas humming all around. There’s a bridge out there, an old railroad bridge?”

“The trestle. Yes.”

“I could see it through the trees. And I decided to walk out on it. There’s a fence that is supposed to guard it, I guess, but that was pretty well torn down. You can slip through it easily enough. I could, at least.”

His mouth was very dry, and he wanted to touch her. Wanted to take her hand, pat her arm, something. Instead he folded his own hands together, squeezed them tight.

“I walked out onto the bridge as the sun dipped down and everything gave over to night. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen. The lighthouse was there against the trees and the rocks, but then it got dark, and I couldn’t see it anymore. Then it was just me on the bridge.”

She lifted one finger and slowly, carefully, wiped a tear away from her left eye. She didn’t comment on it, and neither did he.

“It had been a very bad night,” she said, and her voice was softer, huskier. “I sat out there and thought about what I had to go home to, and what could ever be done about it, and… and I just wanted to sit there and hold on to the night a little longer. That was all I wanted. To keep that June night going for as long as I could.”

She stopped talking. No more tears came, but her breaths were shallow and unsteady. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just gave her time.

“I don’t know how long I was there,” she said. “The moon came up and I watched its reflection in the water for a long time. And then there was another light there. The moon on the water, it went to blue. The strangest blue light I’d ever seen. Then the blue was moving, up onto the rocks, this flame that had just crawled right out of the