The Worm Man

It takes nearly two hours to get from Wilmot to Stowe. I don’t want to call attention to myself, so I drive the speed limit, and use the middle lane. It’s still early, ten-ish. But the sun is stronger now. It’s rays seep through my windshield and make me squint. The day’s brightness makes the reality of what I’m doing— fleeing from a murder scene— tough to ignore. My injuries all seem relatively superficial— cuts, bruises, just the one deep gash in my thigh, and the knife wound in my shoulder. I focus on finding Cassie, and ignore my pain. I pass exit signs for towns and villages, and try to imagine the inhabitants living their lives, but can’t. This is worse than after Glen’s death, or Whitney’s abduction. My thoughts race, and I fear they’ll never slow again, that I’ll never be at peace. I’m almost half way to Stowe, near South Royalton, when the cop pulls up beside me. I keep my eyes glued to the road in front of me, and pray he doesn’t look at my license plate. As my knees bounce, I count, “One Mississippi, Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.” When the cop hovers for two whole minutes, my body goes stiff. The traffic is practically non-existent in front of me… just a minivan, a baseball pitch away. I grip my steering wheel and stare straight ahead. I don’t dare look at the cruiser. I refuse to take the bait. I’ve been holding my breath, and have to exhale. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the red blinking light on top of the cruiser. I look at my fingers. Dried blood coats my knuckles. Fresh blood oozes through my t-shirt. I feel it dripping down my back. How am I going to explain the blood? Oh, who are you kidding, Kate? If he’s pulling you over, he knows exactly who you are and what you’ve done. What matters now is getting him to believe that Cassie being at the Bay’s is a definite possibility. The cruiser speeds up. He’s going to cut me off, box me in. I glance in my rearview mirror, expecting to see another cop car behind me. But the road is empty. The cop zips up behind the minivan driving head of me, and motions to the driver. As I zoom by them, relief expels from me like gas. I feel it physically in my gut. I spot the van’s broken taillight, and fight the urge to flip on the radio. If I hear a news bulletin about me, it’ll psyche me out, and I’ll turn myself in. If I hadn’t tossed my phone, I’d use it to call Mom, Liam, and Randi. I want to tell them all I love them. That I’m sorry for making them worry, and for causing them pain. I think of Kingsley. I want to tell him I consider him a friend. My gas tank is nearly empty and I’m shivering when I hit Stowe’s Main Street. I pass arts and craft shops, an old inn, and glimpse a white church steeple. People, likely residents and summer tourists, use the sidewalk. Ahead of me, a little girl walks beside a woman in a tennis skirt. The girl has brown hair and her chin is too square, but I study her anyway, to be certain … to be sure. No, I tell myself. Can’t be. That would be a miracle. Too easy. No way would Cassie be skipping around in broad daylight. As I mentally dismiss the girl, my GPS cues me, and I turn off Main Street. The side street is paved at first, but after a mile or so dirt crunches beneath my wheels. Like me, the Bays live on the outskirts of town. I get their need for solitude. When someone in your life is murdered, you can go to therapy, join support groups, and attempt to rebuild your life. You can fake being a Normal Joe or Joanne, but you’ll always be an outsider. You remain on the cusp. Being the loved one of a murder-victim indelibly separates you from normal society, for sure.