The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  “Where are you from originally?” I ask as I try and figure out my exit strategy.

  “I’m from Sparrow, not too far from here. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive or so. Sparrow is a nice little shore town. I used to hate it there when I was a kid, and I couldn’t wait to leave for the city. Just a bunch of tourists in the summer, and everything closes up when the out-of-towners leave come Labor Day. It was like the locals didn’t deserve anything good. But Sparrow is a million times better than this boring shithole. The bars here suck.”

  “You’re from Sparrow?” I ask as a knot begins to tighten in my stomach.

  “Yep. I was a different man before I came to this cesspool. Just look at my driver’s license picture. I had that taken right before I moved in here with A.J.”

  The big man grabs his license and shoves it under my nose for a close inspection.

  “See? I didn’t look half bad then, don’t you think? You’re married, aren’t you? I see that big rock on your finger. That’s too bad. You’re real pretty.”

  I scan the driver’s license for any pertinent information. The man getting sauced in front of me was born the same year as Ben. He would have been in my brother’s class in Sparrow.

  I check the name on the license to see if I remember him. Brewster. Mark Wallace Brewster. A sickly panic starts to build in my chest. Thirty years after he tried to beat up my brother at Funland, my childhood bully is standing right in front of me. I feel overpowered for a second, like I am a seven-year-old poor kid again. I look over at Brewster and swear that I can detect the makings of a nasty smile beginning to spread across Brewster’s face as he senses my fear. But before I give in to self-doubt and panic, I steady myself and remember Ben’s words as we sat outside of the library in Sparrow after we ran away from our bully.

  (“Don’t ever back down from bullies like Mark Brewster. You’ve got to stand up to them, no matter what.”)

  I look back at Brewster, the once spoiled rich kid who is now drunk out of his mind and covered in pig shit, and I regain control. I had forgotten about the rumors of Brewster’s demise. He became a big druggie in high school after his mother died. He smoked pot under the bridge with the older kids before school and then graduated to meth and later heroin. His father was still president of the county council and remarried a woman who was only four years older than Mark. The dad finally cut Mark off after two unsuccessful stints at a military school and later rehab. If Brewster wound up with Parker, he obviously had nowhere else to go.

  “Small world. When I was a kid, my parents took me to Sparrow during the summers. I loved that place. I remember Funland. Sparrow also had a roller skating rink with a bowling alley downstairs as I recall. And there was the boardwalk. Back then, I thought Sparrow was the greatest place on earth.”

  “You’ve been to Sparrow?” Brewster asks.

  He leaps up from his chair and gives me an uncomfortable hug that is too close and too tight. Brewster smells like a biker bar at closing time. I back away and put the cheap card table between us.

  “I remember one summer while we were visiting, there were a lot of stories about a kid who went missing,” I say. “My mom got really overprotective and wouldn’t let us go to the beach by ourselves after that. I’m trying to remember the kid’s name. I think it was a boy.”

  Brewster goes back to the refrigerator for another beer and then lights a cigarette. He starts hacking after his first puff, coughs up a yellow phlegm ball, and spits it into the ashtray.

  “Oh, right. You mean that little bastard Ben,” Brewster sneers. “Ben Gooden was his name. Stupid brat. He was poor as shit and came from nothing. But he acted like he owned the whole damn town. He and his crappy little family weren’t even good enough to be white trash. He was a big-mouthed jerk, always getting in people’s faces if they said anything about his family or that kid sister of his.”

  Brewster throws his head back and begins to howl with laughter, opening his mouth so wide I can see he is missing at least four teeth in the back.

  “May pop! May pop! Ben is wearing may pops!” Brewster sings with glee. “Ben Gooden was so poor, his mom bought him shoes at the A&P. We called them may pops because we said Ben’s toes were going to pop out of those ratty old sneakers at any minute.”

  I sit on my hands so I won’t lunge across the table and slug Brewster.

  “Yeah, that kid disappeared. As far as I am concerned, he had it coming,” Brewster says and takes another chug of beer. “I remember now. It was right around Labor Day weekend before school started. I don’t think the police ever found out what happened to him.”

  “Your cousin was a bus driver, right? A.J. told me how much he loved kids and he used to drive buses back then. Those guys always know what’s going on. Did he ever mention anything to you about Ben?”

  Brewster puts his beer down on the table and his brow knits together. Even though Brewster is now beyond drunk, he’s still sober enough to suspect I’m up to something.

  “You seem awfully interested in this kid Ben. Why’s that?”

  “I told you. I heard about the kid when we were visiting that one summer. I was just curious. I figured if you were from there, you might know what had happened to the boy. It’s just a big coincidence you used to live there.”

  “People talked is all,” Brewster slurs as the influx of booze starts to hit him. “There were a lot of stories out there. I heard the dad probably sold the kid to get money. Other people thought Ben ran away to get the hell away from his family. And who could blame him? Poor kids like that don’t amount to anything anyway. Never do. Then the rich people get sucked dry by having to pay extra to be sure those poor bastards get their food stamps and Medicaid and other handouts. Poor people like that deserve to die. It would make things easier for everyone.”

  I spot Brewster’s gun still propped up in the corner of the room and calculate how long it would take me to grab it. My escape plan takes a backseat as Brewster pulls out a necklace from underneath his dirty T-shirt. The necklace is a simple silver chain with a charm in the center, a baseball with red stitching and a red, white, and blue hat. In the center is the word YANKEES. Ben’s necklace. He bought it after he worked an entire summer mowing lawns. Ben was so proud of that necklace, he never took it off. I close my eyes for a second, and my brother’s image sparks clear in my memory. He was wearing the necklace when he went to bed the night he disappeared.

  “Where did you get that?” I demand.

  “A.J. gave it to me. What’s it to you?”

  Everything. I feel a rush of heat creep up my face. I have to force myself not to start pummeling Brewster and snatch my brother’s necklace from his fat neck. That necklace touched my brother’s skin. That bastard Parker stole my brother, took his prized possession, and gave it to this sorry asshole. I’ll be damned if I don’t get it back. I feel the burn of tears begin and a blind fury growing inside me. Keep it together, Julia, I tell myself.

  “My husband loves the Yankees,” I say, softening my voice. “I haven’t seen one of those charms in a long time. Tell you what, let me buy it from you.”

  “It’s not for sale,” Brewster responds coldly, and shoves the necklace inside his T-shirt.

  “How about two hundred dollars.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “Two hundred. I’ll go to my car and get the money. I just came from the bank and left all my cash in the glove compartment. I’d really like to give you one of my business cards for A.J. and I left them in my purse. Tell you what, I’ll get you another beer before I go. Do we have a deal?”

  “Two hundred and fifty bucks and you’ve got a deal. Just hand me that beer before you go, sweetheart,” he says and reaches behind his neck to unclasp the necklace.

  My heart feels like it is pumping outside of my chest as Brewster holds my brother’s necklace out to me in his grime-stained palm. I take the necklace in one fluid move, forcing myself not to snatch it, and Brewster tries to rise on his wobbly feet. He steadies hi
mself against the thin card table as another wave of liquor kicks in. He stumbles over to the corner of the kitchen by the stove, picks up his rifle, and opens the back screen door. I can hear the quick, staccato rhythm of my heart beating as I watch my childhood bully stagger to the edge of the deck and line up a row of empty beer cans in a drunken, uneven line. I quickly press my brother’s necklace to my lips, shove it in my pocket, and hurry to the back door.

  “Always good to do a little target practice,” Brewster says as the screen slams shut behind me. “You never know when you’re going to need it.”

  Brewster stumbles in my direction and places his index finger under my chin.

  “Maybe we can get to know each other a little better when you get back with the money. What do you say?”

  “I’ll be back in just a minute with the cash. Don’t go anywhere. Okay?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting for you,” Brewster promises and puckers his lips together as if he is blowing me a kiss.

  I walk at a relaxed pace through the backyard until I am sure I am out of Brewster’s line of vision. As soon as I can’t see him anymore, I race past the side of the house just as Brewster starts firing shots at the beer cans. The sound of the gun and my probable panic alert the Rottweiler. The dog begins its vicious, tethered rampage as I sprint past. I don’t turn around to face the angry beast and keep moving until I reach my car. Safely inside, I try and temper my breathing. I snap the locks shut, feeling my only sense of security in the last twenty minutes since Brewster pulled the gun on me, and then accidentally drop the car keys on the floorboard. I bend down to pick them up, jam the key into the ignition, and look through the windshield. Rounding the corner from the backyard is Brewster. He is running straight toward me like a wild hillbilly with his gun pointed at my vehicle. He stops abruptly at the Chevy truck and unclasps the Rottweiler’s leash.

  “Come on, come on,” I yell and finally turn the key in the ignition. I jam my foot on the gas pedal just as Brewster opens fire. I instinctively duck down and stay in place as a single bullet pierces the rear passenger door.

  “You lying bitch! You took my necklace, and now I’m going to kill you,” Brewster howls as I peel off the gravel shoulder and begin to escape down the dirt country road.

  I keep my eyes on Brewster, who continues to pump and shoot in a pretty good rhythm for a drunk guy, until he becomes a tiny speck in my rearview mirror.

  When Brewster is finally out of sight, I pull the New York Yankees necklace out of my pocket and hold it tightly in my right hand.

  “I didn’t let him beat me, Ben,” I say. “I didn’t let him beat me.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I fight a screaming, primal urge to search for the hunting camp myself. But since I have a drunken bully with a gun threatening to kill me, I realize I need to go to the police instead of playing rogue investigative reporter again. I fumble for my phone and punch in Navarro’s number, fully expecting to get his voice mail.

  “Navarro here.”

  “Thank God,” I say hurriedly. “I need to see you right now. I found a new piece of evidence, and there’s another building on Parker’s property you need to search. Just tell me where you are and I’ll meet you.”

  “Did you go to Parker’s place?” Navarro asks. “Holy shit, you did. You’re going to get yourself hurt, or worse, killed if you keep pulling stunts like this.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “Christ almighty. All right. I’m in Decremer. Meet me downtown. I’m at the Harvest Café.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” I answer and hit the gas hard, forcing the speedometer to leap to the right.

  I make it to downtown in three. I bypass the jammed line of parked cars along Main Street and pull up in front of the restaurant loading dock in the rear of the building.

  I hustle inside and grab the arm of a young hostess who is trying to ignore the swell of waiting customers crowding around the podium.

  “I need to find someone, tall guy, good looking, mid-thirties, with a thick New Jersey accent. He’s got a barbed-wire tattoo on his bicep. You need to take me to him right now.”

  The hostess stares down at my hand, which is latched around her wrist, and leads me wordlessly through the double row of cherry-red booths filled to capacity with the late-lunch crowd.

  I spot Navarro before he sees me. He’s busy devouring a just-delivered sandwich of boiled meat, sauerkraut, and Swiss cheese with so much passion, it looks like he is savoring his very last meal before he goes to the electric chair.

  I slide into the booth across from Navarro, grab his plate, and hand it to a passing waiter.

  “The detective is all through,” I tell the waiter. “We need to talk.”

  “You didn’t have to take my food, for God’s sake. What’ve you got?”

  “Parker has a hunting camp on his property. I’ve got something else. I’m sure it belonged to my brother,” I say and carefully pull Ben’s necklace from my pocket.

  I place it delicately on the table and arrange the chain so the necklace lies perfectly flat.

  “This necklace is extremely important to me, so you have to promise me I’ll get it back.”

  “New York Yankees. Where did you get this?” Navarro asks.

  “At Parker’s place. I ran into someone I knew from a long time ago. He lives with Parker and says he’s a relative. The guy, his name is Mark Brewster, told me about the hunting camp. Brewster said they’ve got thirty acres there, plenty of land to hide a missing child. He told me the hunting camp is by the old Shaw Mill covered bridge.”

  Navarro raises his index finger and grabs his cell phone. “Yeah, we need another search warrant for the entire property this time, including a hunting camp that is down by the old covered bridge. We’ve got another piece of evidence that looks like it belonged to the brother in the ’77 abduction.”

  Navarro ends his call and turns his attention back to me.

  “You know better than that. What were you thinking breaking into Parker’s house? Not only is it dangerous, it’s illegal. You could get five to ten years in jail for a breaking and entering collar. I should arrest you right now and then at least you’d be out of my hair for a while.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t play daredevil reporter again. You’re better alive than dead to your kids,” he says.

  “What else did you get from Parker?” I ask.

  “His story checks out about his uncle letting him live on the farm after the aunt died. The aunt drowned during an outing on Port Huron, but no body was ever found. According to census records, Parker has been living there for twenty years at least.”

  Like most journalists, math was never my strong point. I grab the pen sticking out of Navarro’s shirt pocket and jot down a few numbers on the paper place mat in front of me.

  “Something doesn’t seem right,” I realize.

  “What are you talking about? Everything is right. We’ve got the guy who kidnapped your brother and son in jail already. All we need is for Parker to tell us where he’s hidden Will.”

  “The timeframe isn’t right. You think Parker was keeping an eye on me all these years because he was worried one day I’d be able to remember what happened the night Ben was taken and I’d identify him to the cops. If that’s the case, your theory can’t be right. Parker came to South Lakeport twenty years ago. We bought our lake house three years ago. David and I lived in downtown Detroit and then Rochester Hills before that, and neither of those places are right next door to him.”

  “So maybe he lived there already, and one day he picked up the paper and saw your byline. He got spooked,” Navarro says. “It’s too much of a coincidence. He found out about your summer property and thought you were getting too close. Creeping up on him from Detroit to Decremer. You obviously know the cops since that’s your beat, and he couldn’t take any chances. Did you see that stack of newspa
pers in the kitchen? Every single one had your name circled in red pen. He was obsessing, tracking you. And when he didn’t see your byline anymore after you took your leave of absence from the paper, he got scared and came to find you. Parker knew the walls were closing in on him and he had to take care of you finally. Jesus, Julia, an Indian arrowhead was found under your brother’s bed and now your son’s. What more do you want?”

  “If he was worried about me turning him in, why would he take Will instead of trying to kill me?”

  “Because he’s a sick guy,” Navarro says. “He broke into your house thinking he was going to kill you, Logan’s hiding under his bed, but he sees Will and can’t help himself. Or maybe he heard something and got scared, grabbed the kid, and ran. Or maybe he wanted to punish you for making him look over his shoulder all these years. It doesn’t matter the reason he did it. He’s our guy. Not to mention the fact Cahill got that letter today that clearly links Ben and Will.”

  “It was hand-delivered. It could’ve been from someone who saw the press conference and was trying to screw with us or throw us off their trail. Parker claims he was with his sponsor last night at the time Will was taken. Did his story pan out?”

  “Not exactly. The sponsor said he was with Parker until ten p.m., but the time of the abduction was ten-thirty. That would give Parker plenty of time to drive over to your house.”

  “What if Parker took Ben but not Will? What if it’s someone else, and money is the motive? David and I aren’t millionaires by far, but with David’s promotion in the firm, we’re doing pretty well.”

  “If it was money the kidnapper wanted, you would’ve been hit up for ransom by now. No ransom note, no chance the person who took the kid has any plans to give him back. You know that,” Navarro explains. “We’ve got the guy. Now we just need to find out what he did with Will and then we’ll link him to your brother. You put him before any jury, chances are he’ll get the death penalty, easy.”

  “I know how you cops work. When you lock in on a suspect, you don’t look at anyone else. You can’t make a mistake on this. You always said I had good instincts, right?”