Chapter 9 - The Highway North
On February 12th, we loaded the back of a rented white moving van with six brand-new cardboard boxes, two fresh suitcases, and Lily’s new blue bicycle.
We turned onto Interstate 84 heading east, watching the snow-covered peaks of the Oregon Cascades slowly fade into the rearview mirror.
Mark drove. His hands were loose on the steering wheel, his shoulders relaxed for the first time in two months. Beside him, Lily sat in the middle seat, wearing a pair of thick headphones and reading a book about horses we had bought at the truck stop outside The Dalles.
I sat by the passenger window, watching the brown, rolling hills of the Columbia River Gorge slide past under a clear, pale winter sky.
My phone rang in my lap.
It was a local number from the county seat we had just left behind.
I answered it quietly, holding the phone close to my ear so Mark wouldn't hear the speaker. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Vance?" a voice said. It was Prosecutor Miller.
"Yes, Prosecutor," I said, my heart taking a quick, nervous jump. "Is something wrong?"
"I wanted to reach you before you got out of cell range," Miller said. Her voice was flat, professional, but carried a distinct weight. "We concluded the preliminary competency hearing this morning. The judge reviewed the psychiatric evaluation from the state hospital in Salem."
"And?"
"The defense’s motion for diminished capacity was denied," Miller said. "The state forensic psychiatrist determined that Gary Vance was fully aware of the nature, quality, and wrongfulness of his actions at all times during the commission of the offenses."
I let out a long breath, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. "So he stands trial?"
"He was offered a plea agreement twenty minutes ago," Miller continued. "In exchange for dropping the capital murder charges, he agreed to plead guilty to three counts of First-Degree Attempted Murder and one count of Use of a Chemical Weapon in a Residential Setting. He accepted thirty-five years without the possibility of parole."
Thirty-five years.
At seventy-two years old, it was a life sentence. He would never see the outside of a state facility again. He would never walk down a gravel driveway, never open a wooden box, never stand in a dark hallway while his son slept.
"Thank you, Prosecutor," I whispered.
"Mrs. Vance?" Miller paused, the sound of papers rustling through the line. "There was one condition he requested during the plea entry. The judge denied it immediately, but I thought you should know."
"What condition?"
"He asked for permission to write one letter a year to Lily," Miller said. "To be delivered on her birthday."
I looked over at Lily. She was laughing at something in her book, her small, pale finger pointing at an illustration of a foal running through a meadow. The faint pink scars on her cheeks caught the bright afternoon sunlight coming through the windshield.
"No," I said into the phone, my voice harder and firmer than I had ever known it could be. "No letters. Ever."
"The judge agreed," Miller said. "A permanent, lifetime protection order was entered into the court record ten minutes ago. If he attempts to contact your family directly or through a third party, he will be transferred to the maximum-security unit at Eastern Oregon Correctional."
"Thank you," I said again, and ended the call.
Mark looked over at me, his eyes flicking from the road to my face. "Was that Miller?"
"Yeah," I said, setting the phone down on the dashboard between us. "It’s over, Mark. He took the plea. Thirty-five years."
Mark didn't say anything for a long moment. He kept his eyes fixed on the long, straight ribbon of asphalt stretching out across the brown plateau toward the Idaho border.
Then, slowly, his right hand moved off the wheel and reached across the console, sliding into mine. His palm was warm, dry, and steady.
"Where are we staying tonight?" Mark asked softly.
"Ontario," I smiled, looking out at the sky. "A small motel near the river. They have an indoor pool."
Lily pulled off her headphones. "Can we go swimming tonight, Mom? Can I test my new goggles?"
May you like
"You can stay in the pool until your fingers turn into raisins," I said, reaching back to squeeze her knee.
She laughed—a clear, bright, beautiful sound that echoed through the cab of the truck, completely filling the space where the fear used to live.
