Chapter 15
Tuesday, 4:29 p.m.
ADAM EASED DOWN onto the rough floorboards and laid his head back against the wall. He would be safe here for now, but how long could he last with no food and nothing but a tumbledown shack in the swamp for shelter?
He might be able to pick some wild berries or apples that grew along the edge of the wetlands, but it would hardly be enough to nourish him. And when the cold came, the swamp would sleep until spring, and he couldn’t survive without a constant source of food and heat.
The heat he could take care of. There were enough dead and dying trees in the area to furnish him with fuel, and he could insulate the hut with grass or straw hauled from a farmer’s field a mile or so away. He could survive the winter without fear of freezing to death, but food was his main concern. The small wildlife in the area would all but disappear in the winter, and even if he could trap the occasional rabbit, meat of any kind would be scarce.
He had some life-and-death decisions to make and there was no one else he could turn to.
But winter was still a long way off, and it was impossible to tell what might happen to him in the meantime. For all he knew, and sometimes for all he cared, he could be dead by then. That might be for the best anyway. He was a burden on society, a burden on his mother, and always a burden to himself.
He glanced around the single-room hut. He had discovered this place many years ago and enjoyed some peaceful times here—away from the rest of the cruel and uncaring world, and away from his parents’ arguing. He hadn’t been here since his father had died, and he’d kept this place a secret. It was a safe haven, and a place where he could be alone and not have to hear about what a loser he was.
But back then, he’d known he could always return home after he’d recharged his soul. Now, this was home, and there was no turning back.
He sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. The roof was still intact, and the walls, although leaning and bulging in places, still appeared solid enough. Whoever had built this place had done a good job, considering the location. He wondered what it had been used for at the time. Perhaps it was once someone’s home. Maybe someone who needed a refuge—just like him.
The shack was dry, built on a solid piece of land rising above the swampy waters, and the builder had mounted it on half a dozen firm wooden pillars to be certain it would endure. That kept it well above the rising and falling of the waters.
Unlike most people who shunned the muddy, decaying wetland, looking on it as nothing more than a place to be feared, a place of death and decay, Adam felt at home in the steaming bog. Much like himself, it was misunderstood. It was a place of vibrant life and rebirth, a place of new beginnings and innocence.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the pungent odor surrounding him. The beautiful fragrance of constantly decaying vegetation signified a second chance. The black waters of the wild wetland would regenerate, sprout anew, and breathe fresh life into death.
If it were possible, he would throw himself into the beautiful black waters and reincarnate into what he yearned to be—normal, like the rest of the world, happy, healthy, and free.
A bullfrog’s deep voice spoke somewhere close by. Adam opened his eyes and gazed through the small window—a square hole in the wall—and strained to see the visitor. The thick foliage and the rising steam perfectly camouflaged the creature from its predators, invisible to all but a mate perhaps waiting nearby.
The situation he found himself in was completely beyond his control. His illness had caused him to do the unthinkable—take the life of another human being. Though the voices in his head hadn’t presented themselves today, he knew they would be back. It was only a matter of time before they hounded him again, causing him to make another rash move.
He wondered how many times he’d hurt someone, or worse still, killed another human being without knowing it. The woman might not have been the first—just the first time he got caught.
If worse came to worst, he would allow himself to die in the swamp rather than let the voices control him. The problem was, when he blacked out he didn’t know what he did. He could kill someone and never know it had happened.
It was a despairing thought, and he felt helpless. There was nothing he could do about it, and it all seemed to be beyond the expertise of his doctor, the doctor he might never see again. Dr. Zalora would turn him in for sure. Even his mother wouldn’t be able to help him much. The police would be certain to keep an eye on the house in case he returned, and the penalty for sheltering a fugitive from justice would be more than she deserved.
He rose wearily to his feet and stepped outside the hut. On the high ground where he stood, weeds and wildflowers thrived. Vines swallowed one side of the building, reaching for the sun from the rooftop. Lush grass flourished in patches of dark green about his feet. Here and there an evergreen stood amid the quaking moss. Tall reeds shot upwards from the muddy ground a few feet away, and further down, the swamp bubbled and steamed endlessly.
Adam wondered if they would track him here. They would scour the neighborhood and perhaps the rest of the city, but surely no one would think he had retreated to such a desolate and dangerous place. Maybe they would give up eventually, assuming he’d moved from the city, or maybe even out of the country.
That is, if he could keep himself under control and not make an appearance during one of his blackout periods.
Perhaps he was being too optimistic, a rather unusual state for him. He was more used to being unduly paranoid, in fear of the unknown, frightened of unseen dangers that permeated his thoughts and overwhelmed him with panic.
It was during those irrational panic attacks he entertained thoughts of ending it all. He often found himself on the cusp of a decision—to give in entirely to the voices, or stop them forever by ending his own worthless existence.
He never seemed to make that decision. During those times when his will was weak, perhaps it was a natural instinct for self-preservation that aided him in the battle against the voices. When the panic subsided, he still existed as before. Nothing changed.
Long ago, he had given up hope they would ever find a cure. His case was unusual, the doctor told him. His advice was to adapt, persevere, and hope one day ongoing research would result in something to stabilize him. All he wanted was to get his life back and be normal. Was that too much to hope for?
Adam sat down on a rock by the edge of the teeming bog, pulled his feet up, and wrapped his arms around his legs. He gazed over the landscape in front of him, swamp as far as he could see, the place he now called home. It would take care of him, feed his soul, and nourish his mind, and the small measure of peace it brought to his tortured heart would be all he could hope for.
Chapter 16
Tuesday, 6:18 p.m.
ANNIE SAT IN her favorite chair in the living room, her legs curled underneath her, staring unseeing at the television. It was the first time they’d taken on a murder case that was already solved. The police were on the hunt for a solid suspect, and it was just a matter of time before they brought the killer in.
With their limited resources, she was unsure how she and Jake could aid in the hunt for Adam Thorburn. The police had employed their manpower to exhaust all possible leads, yet they had been unable to find information pointing to his whereabouts.
She glanced down at Matty. He lay on his back, a cushion under his head, absorbed in a comic book. Jake was on the couch, stretched out, his hands behind his head. He seemed to be in thought, his eyes on the ceiling rather than the muted television.