Can't Find My Way Home Read online

  The theory of a third person in the woods emerged almost immediately. Even Tessa said it was possible – she hadn’t seen who’d knocked her to the ground and rubbed her face in the dirt before stabbing her. Most people believed the Genessa Point Killer, as he’d been named, had attacked Tessa. Jonah had heard her scream and rushed to her aid, but the man who’d terrorized the town for years fled upon Jonah’s arrival after being hit hard with the camera. When Tessa grabbed the knife, blinded by the dirt in her eyes, she’d stabbed Jonah by accident. Jonah’s death was tragic, they’d said, but it wasn’t for nothing. He’d saved a girl’s life.

  For two days townspeople had brought food to the Wilder home, offered comfort and praised Jonah. Although Mark would seldom come out of his room, Brynn and her mother had accepted the food, the praise and the hugs, although Brynn knew they both felt numb.

  Then the police found the knife.

  According to the Wilders, when Mark was fourteen he’d bought a fishing knife for his father’s birthday – a Buck 110 folding Hunter knife. He didn’t have much money, so he’d bought a used knife he could get cheap because of a nick in the blade. He’d spent hours carving J.W. in the wooden handle to make up for the flawed blade. Marguerite told the police that Jonah was thrilled with the knife, especially because of Mark’s carving of the initials, but the knife had disappeared almost two years before Tessa killed Jonah with it.

  Marguerite said her husband had felt awful about the loss of the knife and bought a new one just like it, asking Mark to put J.W. on the handle, but Mark’s feelings were hurt because he thought Jonah had just carelessly misplaced the original, and he’d refused to carve initials. Although police had not found the replacement knife the family claimed Jonah had bought, they’d found the supposedly missing knife with the blade knick and the initials near the site of Tessa’s attack.

  The police questioned Dr Edmund Ellis, Jonah’s fishing companion, who’d said he knew nothing about Jonah losing the knife Mark had given him almost two years earlier, or its replacement. The family was stunned at Edmund’s statement to the police. Then, after what seemed an infinity in the earlier days of DNA testing, finally the police had received the results. Under the hinge of the initialed knife, experts had found the DNA of Jonah, Tessa and three of the Genessa Point Killer’s victims.

  The news about the DNA results quickly leaked from the local police and spread like wildfire throughout town. Some people, who knew little about DNA, claimed someone was pulling a chemical trick with this stuff. What was DNA anyway? Many more people knew about DNA and thought it was the be-all, end-all of evidence. Jonah Wilder’s knife – the knife he kept in his tackle box, for God’s sake – had been used to kill innocent kids; probably all of the GPK’s victims. It seemed impossible, but that quiet, polite man had killed children. Come to think of it, they whispered among themselves, hadn’t Jonah Wilder been just a little too reserved, too unnervingly calm, yet too strict with students at the high school? And those sophisticated chemical tests at a place like the FBI didn’t lie.

  Within two weeks, many people were certain Jonah Wilder had been the Genessa Point Killer. Sheriff Dane, convinced of Jonah Wilder’s guilt, closed the investigation.

  Jonah’s name had become a staple on television newscasts. Later, behavioral scientists studied him. Someone wrote a book about the murders called Stone Jonah: The Genessa Point Killer, and he became almost as famous as Ted Bundy or The Green River Killer. Worst of all, in the book some ‘experts’ conjectured that Jonah had not worked alone. They claimed that Jonah and his son Mark had often operated as a team, like Bianchi and Buono, known as The Hillside Strangler.

  Now, eighteen years later, Mark still couldn’t live with the horror of what had happened to his father or the suspicions about himself. He’d struggled emotionally with the disaster since the time of his father’s death. Like Brynn and their mother, he’d refused to believe Jonah was a killer. They knew that the quiet, kind, patient man they’d lived with for so long did not have murder in his soul.

  Still, they couldn’t change what most of the world believed. The general population of Genessa Point had turned cold and most of their friends suddenly became aloof. Within three months after Jonah’s death the family had escaped to Baltimore and never returned to Genessa Point. After the first shocked year, Marguerite had gone silent about Jonah, refusing to answer if Brynn or Mark tried to talk to her about their father, and getting angry if anyone mentioned the murders.

  On the other hand, not a day went by that Mark had not zealously ‘worked the case.’ Convinced there had been a third person in the woods who’d attacked Tessa and then Jonah when he’d come to Tessa’s aid, Mark had made hundreds of notes, drawn timelines, called the Genessa Point County Police Department with his new evidence and harangued the families of victims for details until the police had threatened to charge him with harassment. Although Brynn agreed with her brother – a third person had been responsible for Tessa’s attack and their father’s resulting death – her mother’s days of obstinate silence and Mark’s frantic activity had made Brynn feel constantly tense, exhausted and bleak.

  When she was fifteen, filled with grief and depression, along with the belief that they would never discover what had really happened on that awful day, Brynn decided if she was to have any life of her own she had to close a door in her mind and refuse to think about the disaster that had destroyed the world she’d loved. She didn’t try to obliterate beloved memories of her father, though, and at unexpected times the image of his tall, slim frame or the sound of his deep, slow, mellow voice flashed in her mind. Often she wondered what he would have done in a bad situation, what he would have been like as he grew older, how different Mark and Marguerite would be if he were alive.

  Unlike Mark, though, she had never let herself dwell on the details of how her father died. Imagining his painful death filled her with a shaking horror that shut everything else from her mind and she knew she must focus on what needed to be done now because although she was the youngest in what was left of her family, she was the strongest. Both her mother and her brother needed her. Day after day, she’d forced herself to concentrate on them, not on sorrow about her father, not on her anger toward Genessa Point, the town that had turned its back on the Wilders. Finally, in her mid-teens, she realized the blinders she’d kept rigorously in place had allowed her to develop enough resiliency to move on and function successfully, even if it was hard for her to let anyone become close or important to her.

  For Mark, the battle was longer. It wasn’t until he was twenty-seven that he’d seemed to tiredly relinquish his own denial and rage about his father’s death as well as the rumors about himself, and settle into defeated peace. Three years later, he’d married a pretty but shallow girl neither Brynn nor Marguerite liked. Nevertheless, Brynn had hoped desperately she’d be a good wife, they’d have a child and that a family could keep Mark grounded in the present.

  Unfortunately, the wife had quickly grown bored and also announced she had no desire for children. Not long afterward, Mark had learned that she was having affairs with a string of men. Soon, he had begun talking about the old murders, at first occasionally, then incessantly. Along with his renewed obsession came increased impatience, irritability and, finally, drinking binges that led to liquor-fueled fury.

  The rest had followed with heartbreaking inevitability. Within the past year he’d lost his wife, most of his few friends, and, a month ago, he’d been fired from his job as a bank loan officer. He’d sunk into despair as once again he’d begun obsessing about that little town on the Chesapeake Bay where his family had been so happy, then so devastated.

  One evening, obviously drunk, he’d called to tell Brynn he was going to Genessa Point to clear their father’s name and, before she could argue, he’d hung up on her. For two days, she’d told herself the plan for a trip was only the result of too much liquor. Still, when she’d ceaselessly called his apartment in Baltimore, his cell phone, and
texted, he hadn’t answered. That was eight days ago. Now, certain he’d been serious about revisiting their hometown with some crazy, hopeless and possibly risky goal, Brynn’s anxiety had grown to a fever pitch.

  ‘I should have believed him and gone to Genessa Point. He’s a damned mess and he’s going to get himself in trouble, I know it,’ Brynn fumed, thumping down on the couch across from the wall of windows overlooking the brilliant city lights of Miami. Miami where no one seemed to sleep. Miami where the sun blazed and winter never came. Miami where she’d fled after her mother died eighteen months ago and where Brynn planned to spend the rest of her life – a city of fun, bone-warming heat. A place where she could forget the past.

  Except that, even at age thirty, and in spite of all her efforts, she’d never been able to forget that horrible day when, as a twelve-year-old, she’d run toward the beach, expecting to find her father peacefully fishing and instead heard screams coming from the cluster of trees. Then she’d seen Dad stagger onto the beach and fall. Sometimes she’d wake in a sweat after reliving the scene in a nightmare.

  Now the phone rang, jerking Brynn back to the present and her Miami apartment. She nearly pounced on it. ‘Hello, it’s Brynn.’

  Silence. Unknown caller showed on the caller ID. Usually, Brynn would have hung up on someone blocking their identity. But then she wasn’t usually so desperate to hear from her brother. ‘Mark?’ she almost shouted. ‘Mark, is that you?’ Nothing. ‘Mark, dammit—’

  She heard music, soft at first, then growing louder. Within moments, she recognized the introduction of Blind Faith’s ‘Can’t Find My Way Home.’ Although the song dated from the late sixties, it had been Mark’s favorite. Jonah had liked it, too, and played it often. Brynn hadn’t been able to listen to the song after her father’s death, but now she sat mesmerized as Steve Winwood sang, ‘I can’t find my way home,’ in a haunting, lost voice.

  The song played all the way through. After a moment of silence at the end, someone sighed, long and lonely. The connection broke off.

  Brynn stood still, barely breathing, gripping the handset. She pressed the off button and took a deep breath, hoping desperately that the phone would ring again. Although she waited fifteen minutes, with depressed certainty, she knew it wouldn’t. She was also sure the call hadn’t been just a prank. It had been a message.

  Her hand trembling, she immediately called the police and reported the call, asking if it could be traced and answering a number of what Brynn considered maddeningly inane questions: had she been threatened; had she been receiving calls regularly; did she have any idea who’d placed the call? Saying she thought the call had come from her brother, who might be in trouble, did not raise the cop’s excitement level.

  ‘Do you have reason to believe your brother could be in trouble, miss?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘Yes. He went back to our hometown of Genessa Point in Maryland. It’s on the Chesapeake Bay. Our father was murdered there.’

  ‘Oh. When was that?’

  ‘Eighteen years ago.’

  ‘Was the murderer caught?’

  ‘Well, yes, sort of. It’s a complicated story.’

  ‘I see.’ Pause. ‘Why did your brother go there?’

  ‘He thought he might catch the murderer.’

  ‘I thought you said the murderer had been caught.’

  On and on. Finally, the cop ended with, ‘If you continue to get these calls, Miss Wilder, let us know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get too worked up over one phone call with a song. Probably just kids trying to frighten you. Annoying but harmless.’ The cop gave her a pleasant ‘Good evening, ma’am’ and hung up. Furious, Brynn tried to slam her handset back in the tilted base and dropped it. She picked up the handset and banged it against the table three times, muttering curses.

  Trying to calm down, Brynn closed her eyes and drew another deep breath. Still, her chest felt tight. She picked up her bottle of beer, opened the sliding glass doors and walked out onto the terrace of her apartment. Even for late June in Miami, the day had been unusually hot. She stared at city lights bouncing off tumultuous clouds, predicting a fast-approaching storm.

  She leaned on the terrace ledge, gazing at the clouds. For as long as she could remember, Brynn had loved storms. When one loomed close by she would stand outside, the wind blowing her hair, looking up at brooding skies while waiting to see shards of lightning and hear the boom of thunder.

  As a child, Brynn hadn’t understood her fascination with storms. She only knew that the electric crackle in the air and the sight of fiery spears against billowing clouds followed by the roar of thunder filled her with rapture. As an adult, she saw it all as a display of the anger and the power of nature, a tiny slice of universal force. Storms were unpredictable. Storms were exciting.

  Except for tonight. Brynn watched white light flash inside the mist of a cloud. To her surprise, the fine hair on her arms raised in a nervous chill. Her spine tightened as a shiver raced through her. She turned away from the fire-streaked sky and hurried back into her apartment, not even waiting for the thunder. This storm seemed different than any storm she’d ever watched before. It didn’t fill her with exhilaration. It seemed like a portent of disaster.

  My God, who had called and played Mark’s favorite song and hung up? she wondered. Even if Mark were drunk, he wouldn’t do such a thing. When he was drunk – which wasn’t often until this year – he ranted. He turned loud and defiant, usually sounding like a boisterous little boy having a temper tantrum. He wasn’t quiet and tricky. He would never have made that anonymous, insidiously cruel call. Never.

  Brynn closed the terrace doors, shutting out the sound of thunder. Immediately, she remembered wrapping her arms around her dying mother. As Marguerite drew her last labored breaths, she’d whispered that she’d always loved her brave little girl. Then, with a rasping voice that ripped at Brynn’s heart, she’d asked for a promise. ‘Please, honey, always take care of your brother. He needs you so much. Promise me … promise …’ And with heartfelt sincerity, not temporary comfort for the dying, Brynn had promised.

  Now, the time had come for that promise to be tested. Brynn had sworn to herself she would never go back to Genessa Point no matter what the circumstances. For eighteen years, she’d kept that oath.

  As a nearby brilliant burst of lightning lit the dim apartment, Brynn closed her eyes, reluctantly embracing the truth – it didn’t matter that the memory of the town stabbed her with icy apprehension. She would not – could not – break her promise to Marguerite. Her mother was gone, but the brother she loved, the brother she’d vowed to protect, was still alive, and he was in trouble.

  Mark needed her more than he ever had, and Brynn knew she had no choice – she must return to Genessa Point.

  Later, Brynn lay in bed, hot and sticky although she’d set the air conditioner to a lower temperature than usual. She wished desperately for the sleep she needed but knew wouldn’t come even though she felt weary to her bones, fragile mentally and physically.

  When the bedside phone rang, though, she tensed, snatching it up and almost pleading, ‘Mark?’

  ‘Uhhh, no.’ A light, hesitant, feminine voice. ‘Brynn, it’s Cassie.’

  ‘Cassie!’ Cassie Hutton, the one person in Genessa Point who had remained Brynn’s friend during the last eighteen years.

  ‘You sound exhausted, Brynn. I know it’s too late to be calling you.’

  ‘It’s just midnight.’

  ‘Oh, you were probably writing.’

  Brynn knew Cassie had visions of her writing – by candlelight – half the night about haunted houses and tormented spirits. Cassie wouldn’t call now unless something was wrong. A thought shot through Brynn’s tired mind and she sat up. ‘How stupid of me not to think of calling you earlier this week, Cassie! Do you know if Mark’s in Genessa Point?’

  ‘Uh … yes. I’ve seen him.’

  ‘You’ve seen him? Is he all right? Why didn’t you let me know sooner? He doesn’t retu
rn calls—’

  ‘Slow down. I’m the fast-talker, remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve been frantic. Mark’s had an awful year,’ Brynn rushed on. ‘I told you all about it in the spring and things haven’t improved. He’s been in really bad shape and a week ago he called me, drunk, and said he was going to Genessa Point. He’s fixated again on clearing Dad’s name, only this time he’s worse than ever. I haven’t heard from him since he left. I’ve gotten so little sleep this week, I feel like the walking dead.’

  ‘My God, no wonder!’ Cassie’s voice picked up speed and urgency. ‘I should have called you Saturday, but he said you were fine about him coming and not to bother you because you were really busy.’

  ‘He did? It’s not true, dammit!’ Brynn’s anger surged. Mark had been lying to Cassie while causing his sister sleepless nights and stress-filled days. Still, she knew her feelings weren’t important now. ‘Just tell me what’s going on with him.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see Mark until Friday. He stopped in the store to say hello.’

  Eight years earlier, Lavinia Love had died and willed Love’s Dress Shoppe to Cassie, her great-niece. The dress shop had never interested Cassie’s mother, but Cassie had always loved the store and had a college degree in business. Most important, Lavinia had wanted to keep the store in the family and not will it to Cassie’s mother, who would have sold it.

  ‘Mark didn’t look great,’ Cassie went on, ‘but he didn’t look bad, either – just too thin, eyes a little sunken like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep, but still handsome. He said he’d driven down here for the festival.’

  ‘The festival?’ Brynn asked blankly.