Red-Blooded Heart

by V. J. Chambers

  But I’d like to know for sure, so I guess I have to report him missing.

  Thing is, if I have a search party out there, combing the woods for him, that kills my plan. I won’t be able to follow through with it, even if they find out he is dead.

  So, if I tell the police, I’m going to have to come up with a new plan.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I’m driven by a vague feeling that the right thing to do is to report the fact that Graham is missing, so I drive out to the police station.

  After I get there, I stay in the parking lot for a while, in my truck, debating on whether or not to even go in. Eventually, I decide that I’m here, and that I might as well.

  So, taking a deep breath, I get out of the truck and I walk up to the door. The building that houses the police is square and utilitarian. It was clearly built sometime in the twentieth century, unlike the courthouse next door, which looks as though it’s been there for hundreds of years with its decorative dome and pillars.

  There’s a ramp to the police station, no steps, and I walk up it and then open the door.

  Inside, it smells like stale coffee.

  There’s a front desk with a computer sitting on it, but no one’s sitting behind it. There’s a little bell on it, like at a hotel. Am I meant to ring that for service?

  I approach and I survey the bell and think about it.

  Maybe I should just go.

  Yeah, I should.

  There’s everything to lose by reporting Graham’s death and nothing to gain. I don’t know why I’m here.

  I turn to go, and a voice calls, “Can I help you?”

  I look back, and there’s a police officer in his full uniform, holding a cup of coffee.

  He smiles at me. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I say.

  He points at me. “Hey, are you that gal who moved in up on Fisher’s Road near Deke Rochester?”

  Well, it’s a small world around here, isn’t it? “That’s, um, that’s me.”

  “So good to meet you finally.” He comes out from behind the front desk and offers me his hand. “I’m Felix Cooper. I think it’s so neat how y’all live up there off the grid. I’m such a fan. Wow.” He chuckles.

  I shake hands with him. “Yeah, it’s always been a dream of mine.”

  “Mine too,” he says. “But I got kids and my girlfriend, she would hate it.” He shakes his head, looking wistful.

  “Oh, too bad,” I say.

  “Yeah, I gotta be content with doing a lot of camping trips instead,” he says. “I’ve even been going winter camping. It can be really fun if you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve never really been camping,” I admit.

  “No? But you got that house up there and all.”

  “Well, living in my off-grid house is a lot different than camping. I have a stove and a well and a toilet.”

  He nods. “Right. Guess that’s true.”

  Then we stare at each other and don’t say anything, and it’s awkward.

  “Well, you must be here for a reason,” he says.

  “Uh, right,” I say. What should I tell him? “You know, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve been worried lately that there’s someone outside my house.”

  His eyes widen. “Like an intruder?”

  “I don’t know. I hear things, and I… well, it’s probably nothing. I don’t even know if there’s anything that could be done.”

  “I can come up and look around,” he says. “But there’s only two of us who work here at the station, and it’s not as if I can have someone stake out your place or nothing. Technically, out there, you’re out of city limits anyway, and you should probably call the state police, but they ain’t going to do anything for you at all.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You know, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No, you’re not bothering me.”

  “Maybe if I hear it again, I could call,” I say.

  “That sounds like a real plan,” he says. “You know, I tell you what. I’ll give you my cell number, and you call me anytime. I’m always happy to help out.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “It’s probably an animal,” he says, as he’s scribbling his number on a Post-it note.

  “You’re probably right,” I say, accepting that.

  “But it sure would be interesting if it was something else,” he says. “Maybe that private detective no one can find.”

  “What private detective?”

  “You know, I think his name was Reed? Darius Reed. He was supposedly going up on your road, but no one knows why. And no one’s seen him in months now.”

  “That’s strange,” I say.

  “Ain’t it, though.” He grins at me, handing me the Post-it note. “Now, you call me if you need anything, all right?”

  “I will.” When I get back out to my truck, I scribble down the name Darius Reed before I forget it.

  * * *

  Back at home, I look up Darius Reed. I don’t know why I’m doing it, not exactly. It’s only that it’s weird that two men have disappeared on my road. Not that I can be sure that Darius disappeared there, though. That isn’t exactly what Officer Cooper said. But if he did, well…

  I don’t know.

  It could be related to Watson somehow. I can’t really figure how. It doesn’t seem like something he’d do, but I can’t be sure. A private detective could have been looking for him, and given how hard it was for me to track him down, I don’t think he wants to be found.

  I hadn’t considered the possibility that Watson had hurt Graham, but now I wonder.

  Anyway, I look up the PI, and I find the number for his office. I call it.

  I get a message. “You’ve reached the office of Private Investigator Darius Reed. Mr. Reed is officially missing and is no longer working on his cases. If you have inquiries, you can leave a message and Mr. Reed’s secretary will return your call within one business day. Thank you.”

  I leave my name and number, not really sure why I do it.I guess I want to know if he was looking into Watson or not.

  I’m surprised when I get a call back only a few hours later.

  “Hi, this is Angie, Mr. Reed’s secretary,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

  I wonder why his secretary is still answering calls if he’s gone missing. He can’t be paying her. “Hi,” I say. “I’m, um, I actually live on Fisher’s Road in Daviston, West Virginia. I heard that Mr. Reed was doing some investigation out here before he went missing, and I wanted to know if you could share with me what it was all about.”

  “You live on that road?” she says. “Well, he never made it out there. It looks like he got lost and then wrecked his car in a remote part of the state. They didn’t find the car for months.”

  “He never made it here,” I murmur. Well, there goes my theory about Watson.

  “No, so you don’t have to worry that anything untoward is going on in your community,” she says. “My brother specialized in looking for missing people, and I can assure you, you’re safe.”

  Her brother. Ah. Well, that made more sense why she’d still be answering the phone after all this time. “I’m not worried about my safety. I guess I’m wondering… was he looking for a Henry Watson by chance?”

  “Um, I don’t think so. I’d have to check his notes,” she says. “He didn’t always give me detailed rundowns of all his cases.”

  “Well, could you check?” I say.

  She hesitates. “I suppose so.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Hold, please,” she says, and the line goes dead.

  I wait for a long time. Several times, I’m worried that I’ve been disconnected and I check, but it looks as though the call is still going on.

  Finally, Angie comes back on the line. “Um, there’s no record of his looking for anyone named Watson,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say, disappointed.

  “I don’t even know what case
he was pursuing out there. He had three active cases. He was looking for Alice Bailey, Jessica Warden, and Timothy Surval. Any of those names ring a bell for you?”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.” But I write them all down.

  I spend the rest of the evening looking into each of the names. They have all disappeared. Jessica is a teenager, only fifteen, and she was last seen walking home from cheerleading practice. Alice Bailey is a woman who went missing eight years ago. Her house burned down. Timothy Surval is only ten, and it looks like he was taken by his crazy mother who did not get custody of him.

  I don’t see why Reed would be out here looking for any of these people. None of them have any ties to this place.

  It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Watson, I don’t think. Watson never abducted anyone as far as I know.

  I’m about to forget the whole thing. I’m scrolling through Alice Bailey’s Facebook page, looking at pictures she’s posted and seeing that people have written comments underneath them that are practically eulogies. She is missing, but everyone thinks she is dead.

  In fact, of the three of them, the only one who is probably alive is Timothy Surval.

  That’s when I see the picture of Deke. He’s got an arm around Alice, and he’s younger and he’s laughing, and it’s him.

  I look at the picture, feeling my heart stop.

  Holy fuck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  -deke-

  Since I did not actually get a roadkill deer, I’m out hunting the next day. I force myself to avoid the part of the woods where I buried Graham, because I don’t need to make a trail or a path or anything to that spot. I need to pretend that spot doesn’t exist.

  I strike out, though, and I don’t kill anything.

  Maybe I’m not being patient enough, or maybe it’s just bad luck. I’m not sure. But I don’t feel like being out there anymore, so I head back home. After all, I do have a freezer stocked with meat. It’s not as though I’m in any danger of starving. You can never be too careful, though, of course. It’s always better to have more than less.

  When I get back to my homestead, Juniper’s truck is in the driveway.

  She’s leaning up against the door, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. It’s chilly out, but it still feels like late fall. Technically, I suppose it is, since fall extends to the solstice.

  I wave at her.

  She waves back.

  I don’t speak as I approach her. I’m not sure what she’s doing here. I’ve been expecting the cops to knock on my door and ask if I’ll help with the search for Graham, but no one has shown up.

  Stepping up, I cross my deck to my front door and look down at her questioningly.

  She gives me a coy smile. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  I take a step back. She’s asking me to dinner. This doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. “I don’t know, I guess nothing,” I say, and I’m wary.

  “You should come to my place,” she says. “You’ve had me over for dinner twice. I should return the favor.”

  “What about Graham?” I say.

  “He’s gone,” she says.

  “Well, that’s what you said before,” I say. “But you were worried about him.”

  She shrugs. “Graham was no prize. Maybe it’s karma.”

  I narrow my eyes. I don’t like the way she suddenly seems to have turned off any emotion for Graham. But then, she didn’t seem so much worried about him before, did she? Just worried that he would mess up her plan, whatever her plan is.

  Maybe if I go to dinner at her place, I can ask her some questions and get some answers. I want to know what she’s up to, after all. I’ve killed for this girl, and I hope she was worth it.

  “I didn’t think you liked him,” she says to me. “Let’s not talk about Graham anymore.”

  Huh. Okay. Well… I’m not sure how to take this. “Fine.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Dinner sounds good. What time?”

  “Is 6:00 too early for you?”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s getting dark early these days, anyway.”

  “Right,” she says. “Well, I’ll see you then.”

  “Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “No, that’s fine,” she says. “I’ve got it under control.”

  * * *

  We sit on Juniper’s couch with our plates on little fold-out tables she’s set up for us. She’s cooked chili and cornbread, and almost all of it is freeze dried, she says. The tomatoes and beans were canned, and the cornmeal is from a mix, but otherwise, it’s freeze-dried meat and vegetables. It’s good. Doesn’t taste any different than regular food, near as I can tell.

  I am trying to think of how to ask her the kinds of questions I want to ask, but I’m not getting much of anywhere. I ask her about her family, and she tells me that she has a younger sister and that her parents got divorced about five years ago. It didn’t affect her too badly, because she had already moved away from home, but she worries about her sister.

  I push a little, asking if there’s any special reason her sister would need more worrying, and she gives me a funny look. “No,” she says. “Not really.”

  Now I worry that she’s onto me, that she knows I’ve been spying on her. But the truth is, almost everything that I’ve found out about her has been through social media. She posts things about herself publicly, and so does her sister. There’s no reason that I wouldn’t know. But to admit that I’ve been stalking her digitally is to admit interest, and I don’t want to go there yet.

  There was the kiss, sure, but it seems like a million years ago, and everything is different now. And no matter what it is that I’ve found out about her, I don’t really know her.

  I think of our first dinner together, the way she made pointed jabs at me, and how we talked about feminism and philosophy, and this isn’t like that at all.

  There’s a barrier between us now. Maybe it’s only because I want to know what she’s hiding from me, or maybe it’s because of what happened to Graham. I can’t tell.

  “What about your family?” she says.

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, I’m an only child,” I say.

  “And your parents?”

  “Well, I never knew my dad,” I say. “My mother told him that she was pregnant, and he didn’t react well to the news, apparently, so he was never part of our lives.”

  “It was just you and your mom, then?”

  “My mom married my stepdad when I was about five or six,” I say.

  “And are they still married?”

  “No, my stepdad passed away a few years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “He and I weren’t close.”

  “No? You grew up with him from the time that you were five years old and you weren’t close?”

  “Not really.” I don’t want to talk about this. “Either of your parents get remarried?”

  “No,” she says. “Not yet. But my father has a girlfriend. I like her, I guess. She has a grown son who I met at Thanksgiving this year.” She cocks her head to one side. “What brought you out to this part of the world in the first place?”

  I dip cornbread in my chili, shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess a dream, just like you. But I wasn’t nearly as prepared as you were.”

  “You built your house yourself, though.”

  “Yeah, I did what I could,” I say.

  “And you just knew how to do that?”

  “I worked construction for a few summers in high school.”

  “Handy skill to have.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s very cool to live in a house I built with my own two hands.”

  She doesn’t seem to be eating her chili. “You said something about running from something the other day.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I asked you what you were running from and
you never really answered me.”

  “I guess I’m running from the same things everyone is when they come out here. Traffic, smog, crime, crowds. You name it, I wanted to escape it.”

  “And that’s the only reason you left?”

  “What other reason could there be?” I’m feeling even weirder about all of this. Why is she asking me these questions? Did she find the crawlspace? I guess if she did, she’d know that I had to have built it. I built the damned house, after all.

  But, no, because she wouldn’t ask me to dinner after finding that. She probably wouldn’t even confront me. She’d go to the police and have me arrested for invading her privacy.

  She gets up. “You want more beer?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I’d rather be clearheaded, I think.

  She strides back into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door. She gets herself a beer. “You know, I was wondering if you could take a look at one of the steps over there.”

  “What’s wrong with the step?”

  She closes the refrigerator door. “It’s just a little loose.”

  I get up and make my way over to the other side of the room. I start to test steps. They all feel sturdy to me.

  There’s movement behind me, something fast, a blur.

  I try to turn, but before I can manage it, there’s a sharp pain at the back of my head.

  It’s doubly painful because that’s where Graham slammed my head into the deck.

  As everything fades out and I lose consciousness, I’m able to put it all the together. The blur is Juniper swinging something hard and heavy. She hits me over the head and knocks me out.

  That’s the last thought I have.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  -deke-

  When I wake up, I’m tied to a chair in the middle of her living room, and she’s sitting on the couch, pointing a gun at me.

  What the hell is going on?

  “You’re going to shoot me with the gun I gave you?” I say. Maybe I should say something else. That’s only one fucked-up thing out of all the fucked-up things that are currently happening.

  “Sold me,” she says. “I paid you for it.”

  “Yeah, but only because you insisted,” I say. “What the hell is this, Juniper?”