Hunting Michael Underwood

by L V Gaudet

  It’s the notes jotted in the margins of the report by the previous owner of the files that pulls Lawrence in completely. He immediately recognizes the slanted mostly illegible chicken scratch of the reporter, his mentor, who had collected these files over a lifetime.

  It brings to him full force the memory of the man’s obsession over something big he was investigating and would never breathe so much as a word of, not even to Lawrence. This was something he held on a much deeper and more personal level. Lawrence had seen fear in his eyes those few times he questioned it.

  Lawrence turns his attention to the cryptic notes in the margins, working at deciphering them.

  Cop suspects husband

  Other cop suspects jilted wife - revenge

  Affair

  Dead or alive?

  Not husband?

  Someone else. Who?

  Why the kids?

  The notes only lead to more questions.

  Lawrence turns and stares at the papers still scattered on the floor. “There has to be more. You don’t keep such detailed files through your whole career and not have investigated further, leaving only unanswered questions.”

  He gets down on the floor and starts going through the scattered pages methodically. Pressed with an unnerving urgency, he is soon pawing at them frantically; tossing aside anything that can’t be part of the file. He skims the maybes before adding them to a growing pile to review again. He is determined to find those ever multiplying elusive answers that had evaded him from the discovery of the first body and only survivor of Jason McAllister – Jane Doe, who was left for dead, discarded with the trash.

  Was it Jason McAllister? The thought comes unbidden and he pushes it away. Of, course it was.

  Lawrence picks up a news article clipped from a newspaper, his mind pulled into contemplation, distracted by his own thoughts and looking at the article without really reading it.

  From the start Lawrence sensed there was something much bigger and darker than a single serial killer behind the McAllister story and he was not going to stop until he broke it and found the truth. The discovery of the mass graveyard spanning generations in the woods past the McAllister Farm only reinforced that belief and his conviction to find the real story.

  He almost tosses the paper in his hand aside to flutter down in the scattered mess of discards.

  He pauses, bringing the paper back before him.

  It has the typical shock and awe headline.

  HUSBAND HELD ON SUSPICION IN DISAPPEARANCE OF WIFE AND KIDS

  The article was written by his predecessor and mentor, the files’ previous owner. The accompanying photo is of the mother and kids, a toddler and small boy, smiling into the camera.

  Lawrence reads through the article, reading between the lines for the writer’s own suspicions behind the story. There is always so much the writer holds back for the sake of the article.

  The article details the husband’s affair that ended his marriage, leaving his wife for the other woman. That day he and his wife planned a final outing as a family with the kids, supposedly to lessen the blow of the devastating news. That last fateful day they went to the zoo as a family.

  At the end of the day they were to tell the kids together. Only the husband bailed, telling his wife at the end of the afternoon that his mistress was picking him up there. She would have to deal with the kids’ confusion and heartbreak on her own.

  That day is the last time anyone saw her and the two kids. They vanished forever. The article left more questions than it answered. The husband was held as a suspect. The article failed to say who filed a missing persons report or when it was noticed they were gone. The zoo trip was the last time anyone saw them.

  From his predecessor’s notes on the missing persons report, it was days later when the husband made his first attempt to contact his wife. Weeks later before he filed the missing persons report.

  Lawrence mulls this over, trying to get a feel for how and where it fits in.

  “The kids. Every time I try to figure out the Michael Underwood and Jason McAllister connection, I keep coming back to the same thing; the kids. Did Jason McAllister have kids? They weren’t his; there would be records somewhere of them. It’s only a rumour from a few elderly people who knew who he was back then.

  It can’t be connected. The kids and their mother vanished and are presumed dead. The father was a suspect, believed to have killed them because his marriage was breaking down.”

  25Room Sitting

  Billy, aka The Kid, is walking down the sidewalk of a busy street in what would have been a skyscraper-filled downtown in a larger city, feeling relatively safe lost in the flow of traffic and people. The creepy new guy who just moved in upstairs at the rooming house is gone. He has no idea where or for how long.

  It’s weird, he thinks. First he attacks me and threatens me. Scared the crap out of me! Then he leaves me food and clothes that fit and other stuff. He even asked me stay in his room and said he’d pay me to watch the room. The whole situation feels unreal.

  He’s some kind of creeper, The Kid decides, a regular perv. He’s trying to buy my trust, but I’m too smart. I’ll take his money and the stuff, and maybe the place to sleep while he’s gone. I haven’t decided on that yet. But I’m not stupid enough to trust him. When I sleep, if I sleep in that guy’s room at all, I’m going to wedge the chair under the doorknob so he can’t come in while I’m sleeping.

  Late last night, when he snuck into the house to crash for a few hours, the creepy new man upstairs was sitting in the dark in the living room waiting for him.

  His mind flashes back to that moment.

  Earlier:

  The kid skulks through the darkness outside the house, going to the kitchen window that doesn’t lock. It’s a little stiff in the frame, but he pushes it up with only a little trouble.

  With a jump, he gets enough leverage to pull himself up and into the house. His entrance is ungainly, and he plops quietly on the floor and gets to his feet.

  Trying to be quiet, he tiptoes into the living room, expecting to be alone.

  The man’s voice comes from the darkness, startling him, and he jumps and almost lets out a little yelp.

  “Kid, I have a deal for you.” It’s the creepy new guy from upstairs, the one who threatened him.

  His pulse is racing and he feels the urge to run. How fast can I get out? What’s the fastest? The window? Front door? Back? Can he outrun me?

  Jason stands up and approaches. The kid feels suddenly sticky with fear, frozen in place and wants only to bolt.

  Jason reaches out to him and he is sure he is reaching to grab him roughly and rough him up again, maybe worse. He stares at the outstretched hand in terrified shock. It takes long heartbeats to register.

  Jason is holding out a key to him and he knows what he wants. He feels physically sick.

  Some of the other street kids do that; for money, drugs, and stuff. Eventually it sometimes becomes a matter of survival. I managed to avoid it so far. Now he’s going to force me.

  Jason takes the kid’s hand and places his room key in it.

  The kid stares down at it. The metal is slightly warm from being in Jason’s hand and somehow that makes it all the more treacherous. That part sticks in his mind for hours after, the warmth of the metal.

  Jason is talking, but he isn’t hearing at first.

  Then he realizes what he is saying.

  “Look after the room for me,” Jason says. I’m going away for a few days, maybe longer. I’m not sure how long. You can use the room while I’m away; I’ve got nothing in it anyway. There are just a few things there that I don’t need. You can sleep there, hide out there, whatever. Just keep it clean.”

  He shoves money into the kid’s hand and he almost drops it.

  “That’s for food and stuff,” Jason says, “payment to look after the room. It has to look lived in by a man at all times. No kid stuff; none of your personal crap. If anyone ever goes into the room
it has to look like I and I alone am living there, not a boy, not me and a boy. Got it?

  It has to look like I’m there while I’m gone. Open and close the curtains at different times, turn the light on and off just like someone is living there. Stay away from the window. Make sure you can’t be seen in the window at any time. Not even when you are moving the curtains. Keep the man clothes and stuff tidy and orderly, move them around a little every day as if I’m there using them.”

  He stares the boy down hard, giving him only a brief pause to let it start to sink in.

  “And most importantly, never let anyone see you enter or leave the room.” Jason stresses this, hoping the boy will understand just how important it is.

  No one can know he’s gone. He plans to be back long before his case worker and Detective Jim McNelly ever have a chance to suspect he’s gone. He also isn’t stupid enough not to expect the detective to at least do the occasional drive by to see if it looks like he’s home.

  “I’m going on a trip,” Jason says. He leaves and is gone.

  The kid stares down at the key in his hand. It is still disturbingly warm from the man’s hand. He shoves the cash in his pocket.

  Whatever, it’s cash. But I’m not doing anything weird or anything.

  He tries to settle in and sleep on the couch, but can’t stop looking at the door. He half expects the guy to come back at any moment.

  Feeing anxious and exposed in the living room where anyone who comes in will find him, after a few hours he sighs and gets up.

  “What will it hurt?”

  He waits a while longer to make sure the man isn’t coming back and then goes up to check out the room, ducking down and sneaking past the other rooms as he passes them.

  Just as the creepy man said, there are man-sized clothes in the dresser drawers, and a small bag with toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and other shower stuff. A towel hangs on the corner of the chair back. The top dresser drawer holds a shaving kit and comb. On top of the dresser is a worn book.

  On the bed is a bag with a note. It’s addressed to “The Kid.”

  Hesitant and distrustful, he opens the bag. Inside, are a couple of used books and comic books.

  The kind a boy my age might be interested in if he lived in a regular family like they show on TV.

  There is also a used cell with charger. He flips through the books and comics quickly. Some of them are old comics he never would have looked at. He presses the button to turn on the phone and swipes to open it. The screen is locked.

  “Figures. I can’t even use it.”

  He goes to the door and locks it, returning to lie on the bed. He pulls out one comic book and looks at it. It is some kind of old western. Billy the Kid.

  “Never heard of him.”

  With a shrug he opens the comic and starts reading it. As he reads and flips pages, something falls out; a handful of money and a prepaid card for the phone. Picking up the card, he looks it over.

  “It’s still useless without the code for the lock screen.”

  He picks up the note that had been on top of the bag, looking at it again.

  “The Kid.”

  He turns it over. There is writing on the other side.

  “For emergencies kidd.”

  “Kidd?” It strikes him as weird that the guy would spell it with an extra d. Then a thought hits him and he looks at the phone.

  Four digit code on the lock screen.

  He looks back at the note. Kidd. “It’s worth a try.”

  He presses the button again to bring up the lock screen, keying in the four digits corresponding with the letters – K I D D. He is in.

  “The Kid,” he shrugs, feeling a mix of uncertainty and relief at breaking the code.

  He looks at the comic again. “Billy. Billy the Kid.”

  The cover displays an old-fashioned looking graphic of a rough looking man snarling around a fat smouldering cigar, his clothes and face seeming to almost be melting into each other, his eyes dangerous. The ember on the end of a roughly rolled cigarette sprouting from the corner of his mouth glows bright red against the darkness of the rest of the picture. Twin barrels of a pair of Colt .45s seem ready to pop off the page, pointing at him with smoke curling from their muzzles. He’s wearing the required bad guy black cowboy hat, the hat worn and misshapen as though it had been through a lot of fights.

  The backdrop is a darkened saloon. Ladies in low cut floor length dresses and large hats cower back with shocked expressions. The men, all rough looking cowboys, are either diving for cover or dropping cigarettes from mouths and poker cards with frightened expressions. A tipping table is sending its drinks, cards, and poker chips exploding into the air.

  He studies the main character’s dangerous looking face.

  “That’s as good as any other name. I’ll be Billy now, or The Kid.”

  Present:

  The Kid is not paying attention, lost in his thoughts as he walks along the sidewalk of the busy downtown street.

  He looks up and stops at the corner, waiting for the light change and the cars to stop, letting the memory slip and putting his focus now on the traffic and traffic lights.

  He sees it. Across the busy intersection and a few buildings down. A white van.

  Paling, The Kid turns and runs.

  26Plans and Counter-Plans

  Trevor is in the change room getting ready for his shift along with half a dozen other guys. He almost jumps when Ryan walks in, startled by his sudden appearance. He feels the rush of adrenaline he always gets, worrying he will get caught. It’s more than a worry; it’s a fear, a challenge that is exciting. His whole body almost vibrates with it. The feeling clings to him.

  What will Ryan do here with all these witnesses?

  Ryan only goes to his locker, puts his personal stuff in, and gets his own coveralls on, ignoring Trevor.

  Trevor can’t help himself. He glances at Ryan nervously now and then. His hands are trembling and he turns to block them from the others. He doesn’t want anyone to see his hands shaking.

  Ryan still doesn’t look at him.

  Trevor looks around to see who else is there to witness anything Ryan does. Not all the guys are in yet. Those who are there are not paying either of them any attention. They are already dressed in their coveralls and leaving the change room for the kill floor.

  Trevor pulls his coveralls on quickly, grabbing his goggles, gloves, and hard hat and hurries out of the change room to go to his killing pit. He silently berates himself for being so obvious. He doesn’t want to be left alone in the change room with Ryan.

  By the time he gets out to the killing floor, the other guys are already getting their first bawling victims of the day from the holding pen.

  All I did was talk to her, he thinks as if that would excuse what he is planning to do.

  Behind him he hears the voices of more men arriving for work.

  Minutes later, when Ryan follows to his killing pit next to Trevor’s, he only nods a curt noncommittal greeting at Trevor as if nothing happened between them and goes to work systematically slaughtering cattle.

  Trevor does the same, turning his attention to slaughtering the cattle. He doesn’t enjoy the job the same way, not since Ryan threatened him with the bolt gun. Now he is too afraid to get a little rough with the beasts, or to take out his anger on them or have any fun with them before killing them.

  As the morning wears on, so does Trevor’s nerves.

  What is Ryan waiting for? He’s regretting his decision to visit Elaine now, his legs and arms are lead weights with his fear of the man in the next killing pit.

  Ryan keeps to himself all day, watching Trevor when he isn’t looking. By the afternoon, Trevor is questioning everything he had been thinking.

  Am I making a mistake toying with Ryan and his woman? Is Ryan not going to say or do anything at all? Did Elaine tell Ryan about my visit?

  These thoughts come to him sporadically over the afternoon.

  Ryan su
rreptitiously watches Trevor get increasingly nervous in the next killing pit as the day progresses. He is enjoying it.

  He can tell when Trevor’s thought process changes because his jerky nervous movements turn confident, cocky even.

  By the end of the afternoon Trevor decides that Elaine didn’t tell her boyfriend about his visits. He is wallowing in the knowledge that she kept it to herself.

  This is going to be even more fun, Trevor thinks. I’m not going to just play with them a bit. I’m going to have her. I’m going to use her behind his back, and when I’m done with her I’ll drop whatever is left of her on his doorstep. Then I’ll really have my fun. After I’ve broken her I’ll come back for her. He will know it was me, but he won’t be able to prove it. There will be no body, but I’ll make sure he knows.

  Ryan sees Trevor’s gloating looks and he smiles inwardly. He’s playing along. He’s getting comfortable again.

  Trevor did not show up at my house while I was away to check in on Elaine. He is no friend of mine and would not have come to visit me. How the hell does he even know where I live? He must have followed me home.

  If Trevor is watching the house, it can’t be for anything good. Soon, I’ll find out what game he is playing at. Then I’ll kill him.

  Part Five

  William McAllister

  27Jason Visits his Father

  The bus pulls into the bus station behind another bus, its brakes hissing and making high pitched farting sounds. The doors open and the occupants soon begin piling off the bus and queuing up to wait for the driver to release their baggage from the compartment beneath the seats.

  Another bus comes in behind it, turning in to follow the same long sweeping driveway next to the building.

  Jason McAllister gets off the bus in the midst of the crowd, carrying a worn duffel bag just large enough to hold a change of clothes.

  He looks around the busy depot. Inside the glass doors are more people, benches, and the ticket counter with the board listing the city destinations of the busses.