Authors: Marc Buhmann
The stench was worse at the bottom of the stairs. He did a slow turn, the light cutting through the darkness. The basement was as empty as upstairs, nothing left behind. David crossed the room to a closed door. The knob turned easily, and the door opened. The stench hit him hard, and he took an involuntary step back covering his face. What in God’s name? He shined the light in.
A decaying dog lay against the far wall. Judging by the maggots squirming in its eyes, nose, and mouth it hadn’t been dead long, maybe a week. How had it gotten in here? No matter, a dead dog was the least of his concerns. Best get what he came for and get out of here.
This room had once been used to store coal for the furnace, though that was long before David and Lilly bought the place. For years it was used for storage, until David and Lilly needed a project one winter day. They decided to convert it into a pantry, so they’d worked together constructing shelves. Lilly had been the one to find the loose brick, and when she pulled it out she discovered a hollow area behind the wall.
The light danced over the bricks. He wondered…
David worked his finger into the small missing chunk on the underside of the brick and worked it out. With a little effort he managed to slide it out, then grasped the second and pulled it out, too. He shined the light into the compartment and, to his delight, saw a red cloth. He felt giddy as he pulled it out and unwrapped it: the dull and worn necklace. Or part of it. The pendant he remembered seemed to have been broken in half. Still, it was lovely.
After their confrontation with DeMarcus she’d said she’d lost it, yet now here it was. Why had she lied about it?
There was a scraping sound behind him; he turned just as the door slammed, the echo bouncing off the walls. The noise had startled him, and he dropped the flashlight and the necklace, the light going out.
“Blast it.” He reached down and felt around, his fingers only scraped stone. No way was he going to find anything without the door open.
He went to it and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. Jammed! He slammed his fist on the door. In the gloom he could hear the slithering and sucking sound of the maggots eating the dog. It grew in intensity as he continued to hammer at the door.
The chewing, the gnawing.
BANG!
The squirming, the squealing.
BANG!
Fear was taking hold. A distant familiar screech, a horror from his past.
BANG! BANG!
Getting louder, closer. Sweat dripped into his eyes, burning. Full on panic taking hold.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And then the door opened and David was staring into the concerned and beautiful face of Cynthia. “Mr. Rottingham! Are you okay?”
David put a hand to his chest, closed his eyes, calmed his breathing. He nodded vigorously. “Yes. I am now, thank you.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Th—the door. Wind must have caught it or something and it jammed.”
Cynthia directed her flashlight to the dog, her face contorting in disgust. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Wait. I dropped something. May I borrow your flashlight?”
She handed it over and he swung around. His flashlight had rolled next to the dog; no way was he going near that thing. But where did the necklace go? He scanned the ground but it was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” he muttered to himself, walking in circles around the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“A necklace. It was my wife’s. Do you see it?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “No.”
“I had it in my hand. Then the door closed, and I dropped it. It has to be here.”
Yet he couldn’t find it; it was as if it had disappeared. With a resignation he looked back at Cynthia. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t see it.”
The pitter patter of feet echoed from a pitch black section of the basement they hadn’t been in. Cynthia looked from the sound to David nervously. “We better go.”
With a frustrated sigh, he stood and moved past her. She kept the light on the stairs so he could see the steps as he ascended. A minute later they were standing in the backyard.
“It’s a good thing I saw a suspicious old man hanging around the back and decided to investigate,” she said with a smile.
“So am I.” He glanced around.
She grasped his upper arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You going to be alright?”
“I think so, yes.” He turned and looked back at the house.
Strike two.
First the cabin, now the house. He was going to have to come back a second time to try and recover that necklace.
With Cynthia in tow he made his way slowly to the front of the house. He gave it one final look. “A shame.”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “A shame.”
“I must be going, Cynthia. Thank you again.”
“Of course. About dinner—”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” she said, then turned and walked to her house. David went in the other direction. He was being polite, and he knew she knew that. There would be no dinner.
* * *
“What do you mean you have no record of who owns the property?” Stavic asked into the phone. “There’s a goddamn shack on some goddamn land next to a goddamn river. There’s a little goddamn road that goes to it, too.”
“I’m sorry, Deputy, but as far as our records indicate that is public land owned by the county and not any individual person. I wish I could be more help.”
He slammed the phone down as Kinney walked up, coffee in one hand, a folder in the other. “Trouble?”
“County clerk is fucking useless.”
“There’s a lot of woods out there, Nick. Hard for anyone to keep tabs on everything that goes on in them.” He sat down, the chair squeaking as he leaned back, and set his coffee on the edge of the desk.
Stavic took the folder and looked over the paperwork. Two dead bodies, both unknowns. He’d been meaning to pay his dealer a visit after the first John Doe but hadn’t had the opportunity. While Charles Went wasn’t secretive about his dealings, he did keep a low profile. Stavic didn’t think Kinney knew about Went’s side business, so decided it play it safe. Why ruin a good thing?
“During my little excursion with Harold he mentioned some murders back in the fifties. His description of it was awfully similar to what we’re seeing now. Know anything about it?”
Kinney closed the folder, handed it back. “Nope. A bit before my time.”
“Think we have files?”
Kinney exhaled an airy whistle. “Somewhere I’m sure, but don’t go asking me where. All the old case files are in boxes in the basement. Never had a reason to go digging through that stuff.”
Stavic didn’t much relish digging through old moldy and rotting boxes looking for the paperwork on two murders fifty-plus years ago. “Who was the sheriff back then? Think he could help?”
“Maybe, if he were still alive. Man died of a heart attack years ago.”
Damn. “You do realize we can have all that digitized, right?”
“Yes, but why? Haven’t had to dig through those boxes in a long time. No justification for the cost.”
Looked like he was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. He was going to need more coffee and a line before going down there.
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Kinney said as he stood, “you really should do something with your desk. Personalize it.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. A picture. A calendar. Anything.”
“Why’s that?”
“Helps you focus. Gives you a chance to look away from work for a minute and collect your thoughts. What you’re doing right now forces you to focus on one thing: work. It can drag you down.”
“I’ll go for a walk if I need a break.”
Or do a line in the shitter.
“Can we get back on track, please?”
“I’m telling you it helps.”
Stavic grabbed another folder, opened it, and pulled out some photos and papers. “To make things more interesting it appears the cabin is on public land. No record of who owns it—”
“It’s definitely old. Been there decades.”
“At least. Bed was stripped down—no fluids. No garbage lying around.”
“Any tire marks?”
“None, but with all the leaves coming down that’s not too surprising. I think the more likely scenario is that whoever is going to that place comes by way of the river.”
Kinney stood and took his coffee. “You might as well start digging through the old cases downstairs. A weak lead is better than no lead.”
“Want to help?”
“Not on your life,” Kinney chuckled and walked away.
* * *
Claire decided that she needed to try and repair the connection between her and her daughter. When she’d made the realization yesterday that they hadn’t even had a nice meal together in a really long time, she’d gone to the grocery store to pick up supplies for one of Emily’s favorite dishes. She hoped Emily would be as excited as she was to make it. She knew she’d disappointed her daughter, and she wanted to make it up to her. It was time for her to be a mother again.
She turned the corner onto her street. The car rattled; she’d have to get that looked at when her last paycheck was deposited. Her house was just a few blocks away, a black car parked out front. She watched Emily jog out the front door and get in.
As the car drove past she noticed the driver was a boy around Emily’s age. Who was he? It wasn’t her ex-boyfriend, and she didn’t have any friends that were boys that she knew. Dinner forgotten she decided to follow.
Claire had never tailed another vehicle before, but she’d seen it done in the movies. She knew to keep her distance so as not to spook the other driver, but stay close enough so that they weren’t lost. What looked easy in the movies turned out to be more challenging in real life. At one intersection she almost lost them when they turned right on a yellow light. She was two cars back and was positive she wouldn’t be able to find them—they had a good lead on her after all—but there they were, several blocks ahead, pulling into a metered spot. When she was a little closer she did the same.
What am I doing?
All these years she’d trusted Emily to make smart decisions, so why was she suddenly concerned? Maybe it had to do with the fact she didn’t know who Emily was hanging out with. Emily had shown good judgment over the years because she liked all her friends—all smart girls—but something just felt…
off.
Emily and the boy got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk. A boyfriend? Just a friend?
They rounded the corner, disappearing from view. Shit! Claire jumped out of the car and hurried along the sidewalk, slowing as she approached the corner. She peeked around and didn’t see them. Had they gone in one of the stores? She hurried on, looking in stores as she passed.
Nope. No. Nothing. Where had they gone?
A red Nissan drove past and pulled into a slot a few spots down.
“Oomph!” she said as she bumped into the back of someone who let out a small cry.
“What the hell?”
Claire stared at Emily. The boy had a supportive arm around her, bracing her from a fall. She feigned surprise. “Emily? I am so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Emily glanced at the boy nervously then to her mother.
The boy was handsome, with just a hint of acne. His face had light peach-fuzz whispers that matched his blond hair. “You must be Emily’s mother. I can see the resemblance.” He pulled his arm from around Emily and extended his hand to Claire with a warm smile. “I’m Billy, Mrs. Whitmore. I go to school with Emily.”
She took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you. Emily never mentioned you to me.”
“Mom,” Emily said with a hint of embarrassment.
“I—I’m sorry,” Claire stammered. “That was rude.”
Billy just shook it off. “It’s alright.”
Claire looked back to Emily. “I was about to head home to make dinner. Will you be joining me? Lemon chicken,” she said in a sing-song fashion.
“Oh. Um, we were going to meet up with Jessica and a few others at Manny’s. Is that alright?”
Claire eyed her suspiciously, forcing Emily to look away, uncomfortable. “But… lemon chicken…”
“Mom… I didn’t know. Can we do it tomorrow?”
Claire was disappointed, but she had sprung this on Emily. “Be home by eight, okay? You have school tomorrow.”
“I’m seventeen, mom. And it’s Friday.”
“Of course. Right. Midnight then, okay? Not a minute past.”
“Fine,” she said begrudgingly.
Claire looked at Billy. “Make sure she’s home on time.”
“I will, Mrs. Whitmore.”
As the two walked away Claire realized that she didn’t trust Billy. He was charming, yes, but he put her off somehow.
You’re being silly. He was nothing but courteous.
Yet she didn’t trust him.
* * *