I put on my robe and walked into the kitchen clenching and unclenching my right hand. The knuckles were still swollen and discolored from my trip to see Robert Godsey. I thought about Sarah and shook my head.
I made a pot of coffee and wandered outside to get the newspaper. A slight breeze was blowing out of the southwest, and I could hear the gentle rustle of the brittle leaves that remained on the trees in the woods across the street. I retrieved the newspaper, walked back down the driveway into the house, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table to read.
The headline, above the fold on the front page, said: Prosecutor Seeks Deal; Shocking New Details in Multiple Murders
The story was written by Misty Bell. As I read, I felt the anger rising in my throat. The Johnson City Banner has learned that recently hired Assistant District Attorney Joe Dillard is seeking to make a deal with one of the suspects in six recent murders. Sources close to the investigation confirmed yesterday that Dillard is willing to offer Samuel Boyer, nineteen, a twenty-five-year sentence in exchange for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of an unidentified third party that law enforcement officials believe was involved in the murders. And in a shocking, previously unreported discovery, the Banner has learned that the phrase “ah Satan” was carved into the foreheads of two of the victims…
I threw the paper down on the table in disgust. Jim Beaumont, Lee Mooney, Alexander Dunn, and I were the only people who knew of Beaumont’s offer and my discussion with Lee Mooney. Beaumont had no incentive to leak it to the newspaper; nor did Mooney. I knew I hadn’t done it, so that left only Dunn.
“That son of a bitch,” I muttered. “That slimy little son of a bitch.”
I wondered whether Natasha Davis had seen the story, and if so, what her reaction would be. Would she run? Try to get to Boyer? Clean up any mess that might still be lingering?
“I’m going to strangle him,” I said out loud. “I’m going to crush his windpipe with my bare hands.”
A blond head peaked around the corner near the refrigerator. It was Lilly, who’d been coming home from school every weekend since Caroline’s diagnosis. The director of the dance team had graciously agreed to let her take some time off, and although I’d tried to talk her out of it at first, I was glad to have her home. She stepped around the corner wearing an oversize, bright orange University of Tennessee T-shirt that hung almost to her knees, her long hair rumpled from sleep.
“Who are you going to strangle?” she said.
“Sorry, honey; I didn’t know you were there.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Let me fix you some breakfast. Are you up for a run this morning? It’s beautiful outside.”
“Are we racing?” I saw the competitive glint in her eyes. She’d been running seriously for several years, since she turned thirteen, and she’d been dancing her entire life. She was in great shape, but this was the first time she’d ever asked me to race.
“Do you want to race?” I said.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On how mad you’ll get when I beat you.”
“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” I said.
“How much?”
“Five bucks.”
“Deal. How far are we racing?” Lilly asked.
“Up to you.”
“Three miles. How much of a head start do I get?”
“Who said anything about a head start?”
“C’mon, you’re a man, Dad. And a jock. You’ve been running your whole life.”
“I’ll give you one minute.”
“Five.”
“Three.”
“Okay. Three.”
“We run to the oak on the bluff and back. That’s three miles, right?”
“Right.”
Thirty minutes later, Lilly and I were standing on a ten-foot-wide trail that ran along the northern bank of the Watauga River, also known as Boone Lake. The trail was developed for recreation by the Tennessee Valley Authority and wound for five miles through a wooded area on property owned by the TVA. It was only a couple of hundred yards from our house, so we’d both run the trail a thousand times. As we stood there stretching, she reminded me so much of her mother-beautiful, strong, and intelligent. I wondered briefly where she’d be in five years, ten years. I hoped she didn’t stray too far.
It was perfect on the trail. No one was around, the breeze was still blowing, and the temperature was climbing along with the sun. I put my finger on the stopwatch on my wrist.
“Ready?” I said.
“I apologize in advance for the embarrassment I’m going to cause you,” Lilly said.
“Five… four… three… two… one… Go!”
Lilly took off, and I pushed the button on the watch. I stretched some more and bounced around, watching her disappear around the first bend as I waited for three minutes to elapse. Two minutes into my wait, I heard what sounded like an animal growling, followed by a piercing scream. It was a woman’s voice, not that far away, coming from the direction Lilly ran. I listened intently.
Lilly? Was that Lilly?
The woman screamed again, and I heard another sound. A bear? A dog? Coyote? I took off down the trail as fast as my legs would carry me. I heard it again, but this time the voice was screaming for me: “Dad! Help me! Dad!”
I rounded the first bend and headed up a small rise, my lungs already burning. As I topped the rise, I caught a glimpse of her. She was on the ground, about a hundred yards in front of me, just to the right of the trail. She was screaming and crying and poking at something with a stick.
“Lilly!” I yelled. “I’m coming! Hang on!”
“It’s trying to kill me!” she screamed.
As I closed in on her, I saw the dog. It was a Doberman. And then I saw the blood on Lilly’s face. Her jacket was ripped and her exposed shoulder was bloody. She was swinging a small tree limb in her right hand, desperately trying to keep the dog at bay. I kept running and started looking for a weapon.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Here! Here! Come get me!” The protective parental instinct had taken over. I wasn’t thinking about anything but getting the dog away from my daughter. Even without a weapon, I headed straight for it with absolutely no idea what I’d do when I got there. Kick it, I told myself, punch it, pick it up and smash it against a goddamned tree if you have to.
The dog moved towards Lilly. Thirty yards. She swung the stick she was holding and the Doberman yelped and backed off a little. About fifteen yards short of Lilly, I spotted a thick branch beneath a white oak. I grabbed it up, still running. Then I was between Lilly and the dog. Lilly was crawling backwards, crying. The dog lowered its head and snarled; its canines looked like white spears.
The dog lunged and I brought the tree limb down hard on the top of its head. The oak limb was a perfect club, between three and four feet long and hard as steel. My hands buzzed from the shock as the blow drove the dog’s snout into the dirt beside the trail, stunning it. It snarled again and tried to get up, but then staggered forward and collapsed. I looked at the dog for a brief second, and then I turned and looked at my daughter, who was cowering near a bush. She was covered in blood. I turned back and raised the limb. Brought it down hard. Again. And again. The dog’s head became a bloody mass of hair and brain matter. I dropped the club and rushed to Lilly.
“It must have come from under that bush,” she was saying, pointing to a nearby laurel. “I didn’t even see it until it knocked me down.”
Terrible thoughts were racing through my head. The dog is rabid. Lilly’s been infected. She could die. Then I
