by L V Gaudet
He goes quietly down the stairs to the kitchen, careful to avoid the creaky step. He rummages through the kitchen, finding nothing to eat.
He inspects the garbage, reaching in and pulling something out. He sniffs it and pulls it away quickly with a disgusted look, tossing it back.
Nothing.
He goes to the front door, pauses to stare at it, and thinks better of it. He retreats back through the house to the kitchen and goes out the back door.
Keeping himself pressed against the house, Billy sneaks around to the side. He looks up when he realizes he’s in the shadow of a frightening looking man towering over him.
Billy is frozen in terror, unable to move. He manages a dry swallow, staring up at the eyes that stare back down at him.
He finally breaks free of his paralysis and turns to run, but the man is faster. His arm snaps out and he grabs Billy. The grip is unbreakable, fingers digging painfully into Billy’s shoulder.
Jim walks into the little corner pub and quickly spots Lawrence in a booth in a back corner. The place looks like it’s trying to imitate the old sixties burger joints, or maybe once was one and never fully remodelled after it was turned into a pub.
He catches the bartender’s eye and waves him over on the way to the table. There is no waitress in sight and he suspects there probably isn’t one on most days.
Jim nods to Lawrence as he settles his bulk into the booth across from him. He barely gets himself in when the bartender is hovering and asking for his drink order. He orders and waits for the drink to come before turning his full attention on the reporter. He leans back, taking a long gulp with relief, and stares at Lawrence.
“So, dig up any bodies I should know about?”
“Funny you should ask,” Lawrence says with a wry smirk. His expression grows serious.
“You know those killings way back when William McAllister and his family still lived at the McAllister Farm?”
Jim nods. “Yeah, some young women when Jason McAllister was just a kid. The town people were convinced William McAllister was the killer, ran him out of town with a lynch mob.”
Jim’s mind is already working the memory over. “There was the kid too, Amy Dodds. She was never found.” He had gone back over what files he could find. He was lucky the files even still existed.
“The sheriff, Rick Dalton,” the name springs into his mind. “His notes pointed to William McAllister as being good for the missing and murdered young women, but not the girl. Dalton had been unsure of her.
Right up to the end when the McAllister family vanished, William McAllister was his prime suspect. But his notes questioned that too. It was just too convenient, too many sloppy clues. He noted that William McAllister, in his opinion, was too smart to have left those clues. His suspicion that it was someone else, someone less intelligent, grew.
The file contained the note someone left him too, pointing Dalton to the murder scene, an abandoned farm that turned out to be the scene of multiple murders. It led to the arrest and conviction of another man.”
“That’s it,” Lawrence says. “Usually when local people are this convinced a man they are this familiar with is guilty of something, it proves to be true.”
“There was irrefutable evidence against the man they convicted.”
“Yes, and I believe the locals are completely wrong about William McAllister being involved in the missing and murdered women then. I have no doubt the sheriff got the right man for that. But I just can’t let go of the feeling that William McAllister is guilty of something.”
“You think he’s a killer,” Jim says. He doesn’t doubt it, but he wants to hear what Lawrence thinks.
Lawrence shakes his head.
“No sir, I do not believe he is a killer. I think his family is involved in something much bigger.”
Jim arches an eyebrow in question.
Lawrence looks around the pub, empty except for the bartender some distance away, as if afraid someone might overhear.
He leans over the table to get closer to Jim and whispers.
“I think he was some kind of clean up guy.”
Jim almost laughs. He wonders if Lawrence is trying to be funny. His smile slips away as quickly as it came with the dead serious expression on Lawrence’s face.
“It makes sense,” Lawrence continues. “The McAllister Farm never produced enough of anything to pay for itself, not as far back as records have been kept. He farmed enough to feed his family and a small herd of livestock, living off the farm, and that’s it. It’s been paid off for generations, no mortgage, so that would help. But I can’t find any records anywhere of William McAllister ever selling a single unit of any kind of crop, not a single animal.
The man had no job, no income. He claimed enough on his income taxes to look like a legitimate farmer, paid his taxes on time and in full every year, but it’s all false. So, where did his money come from? The man didn’t even have a bank account.
Even the old farmers I talked to said no one thought there was any way the McAllister Farm could support itself with what he produced.”
“I think you’ve spent too much time digging in dusty basements,” Jim says. But he’s thinking it over.
“I think the farm is a cover,” Lawrence says. “It all fits, the family’s reclusiveness, William McAllister’s aversion to having any kind of attention drawn to him or his family.”
“The boy was exposed to it,” Jim says, seeing where Lawrence is going with this now. “William might have been grooming him even, training Jason to work with him. Or, he just let him hang around while he worked. Something like that sure would mess a kid up.”
He looks pointedly at Lawrence, his eyes eager now.
“That’s where it started for Jason. That girl, Amy Dodds, was probably his first victim. William had to dispose of the body, clean up his son’s mess.”
Lawrence is nodding.
“This could be…” Lawrence starts.
“…The link that ties both McAllisters to the mass graveyard in the woods,” Jim finishes. “They’re still excavating graves and processing bodies. They’ll be at it for months yet, and they’re still exploring for more remains. Who knows just how far this graveyard goes. Amy Dodds could turn up there yet.”
Jim could have hugged the man right now. “What else did you find?” he asks, suspicious this isn’t all.
“I don’t know,” Lawrence says, shaking his head and looking down. He looks up again.
“That means you have something. Out with it man.”
“I don’t know, it’s a long shot, they all are, but I think I might have found two missing kids that vanished around the time people think Jason McAllister suddenly had two kids living at the McAllister farm.”
“How sure are you?” Jim leans forward, his expression grave.
“Not sure at all,” Lawrence says doubtfully. “Just happens to be around the right time.”
Jim has a feeling he’s holding something back. There is no point pressing it though. If Lawrence is holding something back, he won’t give it up. Not until he’s ready.
“You talk to the parents yet?” Jim asks.
“No. The mom went missing at the same time and the dad moved since. I’m still working on tracking him down.”
“So what did the files say?”
“The detective listed it as a custodial kidnapping, the kids as being taken by their mother.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Lawrence shakes his head. He has no reason to not believe it. His predecessor, whose files they were, didn’t believe it. His notes on the report said as much.
“So, you canvassed William McAllister’s neighbours,” Jim says, changing the topic. “Learn anything I should know?”
“Not much. The other tenants are all scared of him.”
“Yeah, I got that and I only talked to two of them.”
Jim shakes his head with a smirk. “He’s pretty old by now. I can’t see him being all that scary.”
“They say he’s strange. Creepy. Doesn’t like anyone coming around and is always out front sweeping the sidewalk. That must be the cleanest sidewalk in the city.”
“Maybe he’s lonely,” Jim suggests. His own talk to the two tenants suggested the man is a recluse.
“Maybe he’s watching,” Lawrence says.
“For what?”
“That’s what I would like to know; or maybe, for who.”
“Maybe he’s paranoid and needs to watch everyone coming and going. If he was what you think, he has good reason to be wary.”
Lawrence shakes his head. “Wary, yes, I can give you that. Paranoid, no. I think he’s too smart for that. I think he’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
After his meeting with Lawrence, Jim returns to William McAllister’s apartment building.
This time as he approaches he spots a frail looking elderly man out front in an old work shirt, suspenders, and hat, standing there slowly and methodically sweeping the sidewalk.
He notices what he missed on his first visit; the stretch of sidewalk in front of the apartment building is a lighter color than the rest, the affect of years of daily sweeping slowly removing the grime that builds up and seeps into the concrete, permanently staining it over the building’s lifespan. It is evidence of the old man’s obsessive daily sweeping.
Getting out of his car up the block, he walks the rest of the way. He approaches the old man, nodding a greeting to him.
The old man sweeps, not acknowledging him.
Jim stops and watches him sweep for a few minutes.
“You sure keep that sidewalk clean.”
The old man just sweeps on.
Jim holds out his hand, the universal symbol of offering a handshake.
“I’m Jim McNelly.”
The old man’s broom stops. He looks up; his eyes steady and hard as they stare back into Jim’s.
“What do you want?” He makes no move to accept Jim’s hand.
Okay, so you want to be that way about it, do you? Jim thinks to himself.
“Are you always out here sweeping?” he asks.
The old man just stares at him, not answering. There is no discernible reaction at all.
He’s good.
“I can see you are a smart man. Let’s cut to the chase.” Taking a chance, he flashes his badge, hoping it’s too quick or the old man doesn’t care to look closely enough to see it’s not local.
“I’m Detective Jim McNelly. You are William McAllister. I’m sure you know your son Jason has gotten himself into trouble.”
There it is; the flash of the eyes. He knows and he probably isn’t going to talk. Play it cool. He doesn’t like attention brought on him or his family. Play down Jason McAllister’s part. Watch him carefully for any signs of reaction, no matter how small.
“I’m not here for Jason. He’s already been tried. I’m looking for someone else, someone your son knows. What do you know about a Michael Underwood?”
“Never heard the name,” William mutters, his broom moving again in a slow sweeping motion. His attention is focused down on his broom against the sidewalk.
“Are you sure? Your son knows him well.”
Well enough to kidnap and murder women together.
“Maybe you know him by another name. He is younger than your son, by about fifteen to twenty years. Someone your son knew who maybe was not the best person for him to hang around with.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” The broom goes back and forth slowly against the sidewalk, deliberately, scritch, scritch, scritch.
“Mr. McAllister, William, I don’t think you understand the urgency here. I need to find your son’s friend. There are two missing women who I believe Michael Underwood kidnapped. If they are still alive, their time is running out for me to find them.”
There, a twitch in his arm, his muscles tensed. Make them real for him, give them names.
“We have not identified one of them. He hurt her once already and he’s taken her again. We called her Jane Doe. We couldn’t let Jane go nameless. The other is Katherine Kingslow. Her mother is very worried. You’ve probably heard of them. They’ve been on national news. You’ve seen their pictures.”
“Don’t watch the news.” Scritch, scritch, scritch.
The scratching of the broom on the sidewalk is getting on Jim’s nerves. Time to push it.
“I was hoping you could save me a lot of work. If you can point me in the right direction, help me find Michael Underwood, you might just save those women’s lives.”
Nothing.
“If you can’t help me out, tell me where I might find Michael Underwood, I’ll have to dig deeper into Jason’s life, and his past.”
William tenses at that, anger flashing in his eyes before he controls himself again. His sweeping motions are more abrupt, harder, showing the anger seething beneath his forced calm.
He’s angry. You are a hard man, William McAllister. You are not going to make this easy. I’m going to have to push you harder if I’m going to get you to talk.
“I’m going to have to talk to anybody else who might know. Your daughter, Sophie, and your wife, Marjory. I’ve already talked to neighbours.”
William looks up from his sweeping finally, his broom still. For a span of racing heartbeats, Jim is sure the broom is going to snap up and strike him.
“It won’t do you any good to talk to Marjory and Sophie hasn’t talked to her brother in years. You’d be wasting your time.”
“If you tell me what you know about Jason’s relationship with Michael Underwood, I won’t need to talk to them.”
The threat is clear and hanging heavily between them. William meets his eyes, his own steady and hard.
“I never heard of him. I haven’t seen my boy in years. You didn’t notice that not one of us came to his trial? That boy is no longer part of this family, not since he was old enough to fend for his self.”
Jim nods understandingly. “I see; you had some sort of falling out. It happens in a lot of families. It’s a lot harder for a mother to turn her back on a child. I’m willing to bet they still communicate.”
“It won’t do you any good. She won’t be able to talk to you.”
“It’s still worth a try, don’t you think?”
William shifts position, his fists tightening on the broom.
He’s stronger than he looks, I bet, Jim thinks.
“She’s sick,” William says, “dementia, doesn’t know who anyone is. She’s lost inside herself, can’t talk to anyone anymore. You’ll only frighten and confuse her.”
William turns and stalks off, holding his broom like a staff, ready to defend himself. He walks back to the apartment door without looking back.
“Do you know about Jason’s kids?” Jim tosses at his retreating back, a parting shot.
William doesn’t even flinch, vanishing inside the building.
“That will make him think.”
Feeling completely unsatisfied with the meeting, Jim returns to his car.
William holds himself in check, showing no reaction to anyone who might be watching, until he has retreated to the privacy of his small apartment.
Closing the door with deliberate control, he checks himself, leaning the broom against the wall with forced control.
“That boy,” he says it like a curse, his eyes blazing with anger, “I taught him better than this. Always telling him, don’t bring attention on yourself or the family. Stay clean, don’t get into trouble. You stupid stupid boy.”
His emotions run the range from anger to failure and back to anger again.
“I’m always cleaning up your messes. Should’ve put you down then, should’ve put you down.”
William pulls an old battered suitcase from the closet and starts packing it.
“I put it off, gave you a chance to fix your own mistakes. It’s time I clean up this mess too.”
William stands there taki
ng slow deep breaths, getting his rage under control.
“You killed her Jason, you killed her.”
Taking the suitcase, he leaves.
29The Boy is Trouble
Jason is walking down the street when he is stopped by an old man. He looks at the old man, thinking how he is easily as old as his father.
“You always were a problem,” the old man says, staring at him with pale cold rheumy eyes. His lack of smile shows it’s not a joke. His face is completely expressionless.
Jason studies him, the lined age-weathered skin, the age spots and skin discoloration, the thinning wispy hair that still mostly covers his head. The man is frail with age, in his eighties, maybe late seventies, but no younger than that.
“You bring too much attention to yourself,” the old man says.
Jason stares into his eyes, eyes that are fading with age, clouded by cataracts, and as steady and bold as any man who fears nothing.
I know you, he thinks. Jason just can’t place him.
My father’s words, don’t bring attention to yourself, how many times have I heard him repeat that?
It clicks.
“Anderson,” Jason says almost proudly at having figured it out. This is the man he met in the diners with his father when they went on jobs together. He was a child then and he had always been terrified of this man; even more than he was of his father.
Then he feels startled. “You are still alive!”
Anderson ignores this.
“You make trouble,” Anderson repeats, “for yourself, for him.”
Jason knows he’s referring to his father.
“For us.”
Anderson blinks at him. Jason can’t answer. He has no idea what to say.
“Everyone who gets close to you is in danger. But you still keep bringing them in.” Anderson pauses, letting Jason think about it. “The boy. Where did you get the boy?”
Boy? Jason thinks, confused.
“There is no boy.” The words are no sooner out of his mouth than he knows what boy Anderson is talking about; the boy at the rooming house.
“He’s nobody; a runaway. The kid was already crashing there before they put me there.”
“What are your intentions with the boy?” Anderson’s stare is cold, calculating, weighing and judging his response.
