Leave No Trace Read online

  “Lucas, I—”

  Jasper’s sudden bark cut off the words in my throat. Hair raised, he broke out of my grip and ran toward the front door. Limping after him, I peered through the peephole and saw a police cruiser pulled up at the curb with its lights flashing. Lucas shadowed me, his eyes darting from window to window.

  “What is it?”

  “The police.” I didn’t stop to assess the situation, to rationalize. All I knew was that I wanted more time. I grabbed him by the arm and lunged toward the back door. “Let’s go.”

  11

  * * *

  WE DARTED THROUGH the house as Jasper’s barks echoed behind us. At the back door, I took a deep breath and motioned for Lucas to be quiet, then unlocked it and stepped into the night. The wind had picked up, battering us as we crept across the lawn. Each crunch of grass echoed in my ankle as I negotiated the roots and twigs, praying I didn’t trip over any of them and give us away. Why were the police at my house? Either Dr. Mehta was worried that I hadn’t answered my phone or someone had seen Lucas in the neighborhood. I felt the weight of a thousand neighbors’ stares on our backs. Charges raced through my head: aiding and abetting, accessory, repeat offender. The last one found its mark and sent a shot of adrenaline through my system, bracing me, numbing me better than any drug as I acknowledged the full implications of what I was doing.

  Behind us a flashlight beam arced across the neighbor’s lawn. They’d be turning the corner any second.

  We ducked into the shadows of the garage and raced to the side door. There were no windows in here. We could wait out the cops and decide what to do next. With shaking fingers, I eased the creaky knob open and pushed against the wood. Lucas was a millisecond behind me as we rushed inside, then both of us staggered to a halt.

  Dad stood next to his truck holding a tire iron.

  His arm relaxed when he saw me, but he stared at Lucas, obviously trying to figure out what was going on.

  “Dad.” I checked behind us to see the lawn was still empty. “This is . . .”

  A few different lies zipped through my head, none of them really plausible with Lucas standing there in hospital scrubs and one arm bound in a sling. Before I could pick one, he cleared his throat and finished the sentence for me.

  “Lucas Blackthorn.”

  Lucas glanced at me, apparently as unsure as I was about how to proceed.

  “Your picture’s been all over the news tonight.” The surprise on Dad’s face melted into suspicion and even though he kept his eyes on Lucas, I knew the next question was for me.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Dad—”

  “Sir—”

  We spoke at the same time, both of us stepping forward right as a policeman walked through the main garage door. He surveyed the scene and homed in on Lucas, easily identifying him in the light from the workbench. Without acknowledging any of us, he pulled his gun and radioed his coordinates in, asking for backup. It was over.

  With a sinking feeling, I turned my back on everyone else and touched Lucas’s coat.

  “Don’t put up a fight. If you have to go to jail, I’ll try to get them to release you as soon as possible. Just ignore everyone like you always do.”

  His arm was rigid, almost bursting with tension. “But”—he dropped his voice, gaze frozen on the officer—“my father.”

  “It’s okay.” I patted the sling, trying to reassure him, to sound like I had the power to make any of this okay. “Be mute. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Dad stood off to the side, obviously listening to our exchange. I lifted my chin, determined not to be ashamed of the choices I’d made tonight. Our gazes met for a split second and then, just as the officer finished his radio call, Dad turned around and set the tire iron on a shelf.

  “Glad you stopped by,” he said conversationally. “My name’s Brian Stark. Look who I found wandering around on the docks.”

  “Sir, this young man is considered a dangerous individual. I’d advise you to back away. You too, miss.”

  “Shit, him? More like a lost puppy. Come here, boy. Lucas, isn’t it?”

  Although digesting the turn of events, Lucas seemed rooted to his spot. I leaned into him, nudging him forward. Shoulders still tight, his free hand fisted, he took a calculated step toward my dad.

  He swallowed before speaking. “Yes, sir?”

  “You feel like hurting any of us?”

  “Of course not.” His face, though, said the exact opposite.

  “See?” Dad gave Lucas what appeared to be a pat on the shoulder, but I knew that move from the days when I’d run loose on the streets, unwilling to listen to a thing he said. Dad was anchoring him in place. “I brought him here to see what Maya wanted to do with him.”

  “Sir, you should have brought him immediately to the station.” The officer still had his gun trained on his suspect.

  I spoke up. “I work with Lucas at Congdon.”

  The officer’s expression made it clear he didn’t think I looked capable of much more than graffiti, let alone having a career. “My orders said the suspect’s doctor lived here.”

  “She’s a speech therapist working for Dr. Riya Mehta,” Dad said. “Great woman. Anyway, we finished detailing the boat and I was headed back to my truck when I spotted this one dangling off the Northland Pier. I’d seen the news of course, so I went over and told him I was Maya’s dad and he came along with me. We were just fixing to take him back. Right, Lucas?”

  I saw my dad’s grip tighten on Lucas’s shoulder and there was a beat before Lucas nodded and let his hand uncurl at his side. “I’m sorry if I caused anyone any trouble. I wanted to see Superior. I kept hearing about it and . . . wanted to see the water for myself.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The officer grumbled, relaxing his stance. He waved the gun at the truck. “Go stand over there and put your hands on the hood. I have to pat you down anyway.”

  Lucas glanced at me and I nodded, so he stiffly walked to the truck and submitted to the inspection. Two more squad cars showed up within a few minutes, their lights flashing all over the alley. The neighbors I’d imagined watching us before were now glued to their windows and I saw at least one phone pointed at us from behind some curtains. I hobbled back to the house where Jasper was losing his mind and sent Dr. Mehta a text to let her know the situation.

  After an extensive argument and two calls to superiors, I convinced the officers we should take Lucas directly back to Congdon according to our “original plan.” The hospital obviously didn’t employ enough security to contain him, the courts had already placed him in our care, and no additional crime had been committed. Eventually they agreed and even allowed Dad and me to drive him, with a police escort. Lucas and I climbed into the back of Dad’s truck and we followed the police motorcade out of the alley.

  Dad punched the radio off and gripped the steering wheel in silence. Lucas stared out the window at the dark houses and wind buffeted trees, the empty storefronts lined with Lincoln Park’s night dwellers—dealers and drunks peppered in with the blue-collar crowd out draining their paychecks—as we drove toward downtown.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “What happened to your foot?” He took a turn too sharp, making Lucas lean into me and me brace against the door.

  “Why aren’t you still on the water?” I countered.

  “There’s a storm coming in.”

  “But the Bannockburn—”

  “The Bannockburn’s been out there for a hundred years. It can wait a little longer. Your foot, Maya.”

  I sighed. When he’d texted about the video and news coverage this morning, I’d omitted the part about spraining an ankle, assuming he wouldn’t be back until long after it healed. I should have known better. Briefly, I recounted the Taser incident and the hospital’s treatment.

  “The X-ray showed no breaks. It’s fine. I can barely feel it.”

  “You don’t limp when you’re fine,” he snapped, and we both fell
silent, hitting a stalemate.

  As we began climbing the hill, Lucas turned away from the window, glancing between me and the back of Dad’s head. Duluth wasn’t a big city and the amount of time we had left in this ride was already dwindling. Police lights blinked over his skin, forcing my mind up the hill to what lay ahead.

  “You’ll go to medical first,” I spoke low, ignoring the angry slice of Dad’s face in the rearview mirror. “Hopefully you’ll be back in ward two in a few days, tops.”

  He could hear what I wasn’t saying. Swallowing, he looked at the tail of the squad car in front of us and the city rushing past. He didn’t respond.

  “You can’t just skip up to the Boundary Waters tonight. You’re still weak, it’s below freezing, and you don’t have any gear.”

  “Winter’s coming.” He rounded on me. “What would you do if it was your father out there?”

  A bark of a laugh snapped both our heads to the front of the cab. “She prefers me gone. Then there’s no one to complain when she half kills herself getting electrocuted or strangled by violent patients.”

  “Dad—” I tried to jump in but he only got louder, a captain used to bellowing over the wind. Lucas looked shell-shocked when he heard the last part and I reached out to him quickly, shaking my head. Dad hadn’t known Lucas was the patient who’d choked me, and it was in everyone’s best interest to keep it that way.

  “What the hell was going on back there, Maya?”

  “She didn’t do anything,” Lucas said. “I came to find her—”

  “I didn’t ask you, Blackthorn.” The streetlights broke in waves over Dad’s face, splintering his irritation as he took another turn. “And I thought you were supposed to be a kid.”

  Lucas turned to me. “I’m supposed to be a kid?”

  “You’re nineteen,” I told him, “even though you don’t look or act like a typical teenager.”

  Lucas thought about that for a second. “What are nineteen-year-olds supposed to act like?”

  I shrugged. “Younger. Stupider.”

  He smiled. “I’ll work on that. So how old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And you’re acting like a thirteen-year-old,” Dad cut in, not ready to let the conversation get away from him. “What happened back at the house?”

  “Lucas is my patient. He came to tell me some things we’ve been working on in therapy. I think we made a breakthrough tonight.”

  Dad laughed again and it was a hard sound. “You got the lines down, Maya, but don’t try to sell bullshit to me, even if you’ve made it smell like roses. Why were you running away from the police with him?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

  “Christ, I knew it was a bad idea when you took the job there. You don’t go work at the same mental hospital where you spent time as a patient seven years ago.”

  Lucas looked at me sharply. His shock was palpable as I stared down at my lap and said in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. “Eight years ago.”

  “Whatever. The point is that you should be in the regular world with a normal job.”

  “Define normal.”

  “Out here!” He flapped a hand at the dark, vacant streets. “You could be a therapist in a clinic making twice the money and not getting attacked every day. Do you even know how much you’re worth?”

  “It didn’t go so well when I was out there in the regular world. Besides I do good work at Congdon. I help people.” My voice came rushing back and with it, my own anger.

  “You’re susceptible to this head case stuff. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “It’s not contagious, Dad.” Lucas laughed once, but I could still sense his surprise. “And I’m probably the least susceptible twenty-three-year-old I’ve ever met. It comes from being half you.”

  “But you’re half her, too.”

  Before I could reply, Dad turned onto Congdon’s street and I gasped. A reporter stood in front of the gate, filming a segment, next to at least a dozen people crowded onto the cracked sidewalk. They held signs and leaned into the shot, their faces washed bloodless by the camera light. There’d only been a handful of them here when I punched out a few hours ago, but news of the escape must have made them multiply. A girl about Lucas’s age with bright red hair stared at the truck as we approached, holding a piece of tagboard that read IF HE’S CRAZY, I’M CRAZY. She pointed and yelled something, causing the rest of them to turn as one while the cameraman scrambled to get footage of our procession.

  “Get down.”

  I pushed Lucas by the good shoulder, doubling him over in the rear seat as the guards began herding people back, trying to make way for the police motorcade. The crowd didn’t want to disperse.

  “Who—?” Lucas began, but anything else he might have said was lost in the yells and clamor of a mass of bodies breaking free from the guards and racing toward us. Signs waved frantically, hands reached out with grasping fingers as I held Lucas’s head beneath the window. One of the police cruisers spun a U-turn inside the gate and flipped their siren on, driving between us and the crowd. As soon as the path forward was clear, Dad gunned the engine and sped through the parking lot to the main entrance where a team of orderlies, nurses, and more security guards waited for us.

  I gave Dad’s shoulder a squeeze before grabbing Lucas’s hand and sliding across the seat to the door. “Thanks, Dad. Don’t wait for me.”

  We hurried toward the main doors, flanked by the remaining police officers. Once inside we were rushed to the medical ward where they performed a series of checks on an uncharacteristically docile Lucas. He submitted to every probe, answered every question, and it wasn’t until I saw Dr. Mehta standing at the doorway to the triage area, eyes narrowed in speculation, that I realized I’d barely let go of Lucas’s hand since the moment we got out of the truck.

  12

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING the world was coated in white. A thick frost had frozen every rooftop, lawn, and tree branch in Duluth and as I peered out the staff break room window, rubbing the couch debris out of my sleep-bruised eyes, a powdery snow whipped into the panes and skittered along the ground, as if the wind refused to let it land. Sometime in the night I’d left Lucas in the care of the nurses and headed down the hall for a few restless hours of sleep. The break room furniture was scratchy and reeked of antiseptic, but it beat going home and trying to explain what happened last night while Dad looked at me in that way of his—like I was a vase glued carefully back together and he had to constantly check me for missing pieces, fissures, any sign that I might crumble again. Today was my day off, though, and I couldn’t leave Jasper alone much longer. I stared into the blowing white world and listened to the tick, tick, ticks of the snow against the window, each flake hurling winter that much closer.

  After checking on Lucas—who may or may not have been sleeping—I took the bus home and made sure the garage was empty before going in to shower and walk the dog. We drove up to Bayfront and paced the lake walk, where Jasper chased snow devils and I limped along the empty boards and scanned Superior’s horizon. The powder wouldn’t last. The sun would chase it away as soon as the clouds broke, but we were getting closer to November and not even Superior’s gales could fight off the inevitable. Normally I liked winter—the four-foot drifts, the nostril-freezing arctic blasts that drove all the tourists away, leaving the town to the hardy, the survivors who bundled up and shoveled oceans of snow before retreating to our mugs and fleece blankets to wait out the endless December nights. Winter in Duluth was antisocial paradise and for someone whose mother suffered from chronic depression, there was a disconcerting comfort in the isolation. A home I recognized, even if I hadn’t asked for it. Today, though, I wasn’t comforted by the cold blast of wind numbing my ankle. I didn’t find relief in the absence of people on the lake walk. Today I was scared for a man I’d never met.

  After dropping Jasper off at home, I drove to the library and spent the rest
of the morning poring over books and topographical maps. I studied pictures, read travelogues, and stared at the mottled landscape of greens and blues that would be covered in white, frozen over and closed off to even the most adventurous hikers in a few short weeks. Maybe to a young boy it would look like a mountain of salt, vast and impenetrable, but Josiah Blackthorn was out there somewhere, sick, alone. I circled the location of the outfitter’s store and drew ranges out from that center point. Five miles. Ten. How far would you go up the mountain to save the person you loved most in the world?

  How far would I go to help them?

  * * *

  Two days after Lucas’s hospital escape I drove through the swelling crowd at Congdon’s gate—at least fifteen people were bundled up and waving signs at passing cars—and punched in to find most of the staff either staring or whispering to each other on the opposite side of whatever room I was in. My dramatic recovery of the boy who came back from the dead, which had aired on every major news channel in Duluth, apparently sealed my reputation as something entirely apart from them. I spent the morning catching up on email, planning session activities for my other patients, and trying to ignore everyone whose Minnesotan niceness made them smile before walking hastily away. The one person I could count on for direct address, unfortunately, was the one person I was trying to avoid. Dr. Mehta held me back after our afternoon staff meeting.

  “I approved Lucas’s transfer back to ward two today.”

  “That’s great, thanks. The group environment is his biggest challenge. The sooner we get him comfortable there, the quicker his recovery.” I inched my way toward the door, thankful that my ankle felt almost back to normal.