by Amy Cross
“I'll make sure you pay for this,” I tell him.
“My friends wouldn't like that very much,” he replies. “Just because you think it was me who took little Mo and stripped -”
Before he can finish, I grab him by the collar and slam him against the tree. For a fraction of a second, I clench my fist ready to knock him out, but at the very last moment I manage to get my anger under control. Still, I keep him pinned against the tree, and I feel as if the best thing I could do for this town right now would be to make sure this bastard never shows his face again. Even if I killed him, the price might be worth paying if it meant that the children of this town were safe.
“Lenny told me it was you,” I say firmly, “so don't even think about playing games!”
He stares at me for a moment, before suddenly starting to laugh. In the process, he sprays bad breath and saliva across my face.
“You won't be laughing soon,” I tell him.
“This must be so hard for you,” he chuckles. “Then again, the honorable, upstanding Sheriff Michael Blaine would never have bent the rules, would he? If you really knew it was me, and if you had any evidence, you'd have locked me up already. Unless you're suggesting that you conspired with Mayor Lenny Johnson to frame an innocent man. Is that what you're suggesting? Maybe it's you who needs to be locked up, for perverting the course of justice. You're not seriously going to go against Mayor Johnson's wishes, are you? You must realize how dangerous that would be. He doesn't like it when people cross him.”
“Go to hell!” I shout, pressing him more firmly against the tree. “This isn't a game!”
“Are you two okay over there?”
Turning, I see that a woman has emerged from one of the nearby houses. I hesitate for a moment, before letting go of Neil and taking a step back.
“Oh, Sheriff Blaine,” she continues, clearly a little shocked, “I didn't...”
She looks at Neil, and then back at me.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“There's nothing to worry about,” I tell her, even though I'm still shaking with rage. “Please, just go about your business.”
“Of course,” she replies, offering a smile before heading back into her house. I swear, it's as if my words were enough to end all her concerns.
Turning, I find that Neil has already hurried away. It takes a moment before I spot him in the distance, heading around the corner, and I quickly set off after him. He thinks I can't touch him, he thinks Lenny's keeping him safe, but I'm going to stick to him like glue until he puts another foot wrong, and then I'm going to haul his ass to a cell. And then I'll do whatever it takes to keep him off the streets, even if I have to lose my badge in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Alex Roberts
Today
“Hey man, he's totally gonna get that triple crown!” Brad laughs, as he sits on the porch with his friend. “Alonso's not one of those drivers who'll be happy just taking part! He's a beast behind the wheel!”
We've been having a great evening, and Brad's friend Vic is fun, but I've been struggling to keep up with their conversation and finally I came inside on the pretext of needing to get some ice. Now that I'm in the kitchen, however, I can't help grabbing my tablet and quickly bringing up a browser window. I glance toward the back window and wait a moment, making absolutely sure that Brad and Vic are still yammering on about Indycar, and then I type a name into the search bar.
Mo Garvey.
I swore I wouldn't start delving into my father's past when we moved here, but I just need to reassure myself that the whole Mo Garvey story really is in the past. As soon as the search results come up, I find a load of wiki pages and a few blogs, and some old news pieces, and then I click through to find that some guy named Harry Bischoff has self-published a short book about the murder case, complete with a terrible cover that looks like it was made in Paint. The book's free, so I tap to download a copy and save it for later, but then I go back to the search results and scroll down, until suddenly I see something that makes my blood run cold.
Sheriff Michael Blaine.
After years of avoiding even seeing my father's name, there it is, along with a thumbnail that's clearly a small version of his old official photo. I should just keep scrolling, but at the same time I don't want to let myself take the cowardly way out, so instead I click through and wait as a blog page loads. Sure enough, after a couple of seconds, I see my father's face for the first time in over a decade.
My hands are trembling.
He looks happy in the photo, wearing his uniform and posing against a blue sky background. The edge of a US flag is in the shot too, and it's clear that this is the picture that was taken of him when he first became sheriff. He looks young and eager, and keen to do a good job. I remember that side of him, but I also know that he changed over the years. The contrast between the man in the picture and the man who eventually lost his mind is so striking, sometimes I catch myself wondering how he could have ended up the way he did.
How did my father end up murdering that little girl?
Scrolling down, I find that the blog page is run by someone who seems to be obsessed with covering the Mo Garvey case. After a moment I spot a contributor name, and I realize that this page is run by the same Harry Bischoff guy who wrote the book I downloaded. One thing's for sure, Mr. Bischoff certainly seems to have been cataloging and covering the murder of Mo Garvey in great detail, and I'm starting to think that his interest in the case seems a little fanatical. Then again, I guess there are some strange people in the world. Sick people, too.
And then I find a paragraph that explains his interest.
“In a previous life,” I whisper, reading out loud, “I served as a deputy in Railham, and I worked directly under Sheriff Michael Blaine. I was there when the Mo Garvey case went down and I saw it all firsthand. And yes, dear reader, that includes the body. I was one of the first people on the scene after she was discovered, and the sight of that poor girl is etched in my mind.”
He knew my father.
Scrolling down a little further, I find a section of text that has been highlighted in red.
“I'm aware that autopsy photographs have leaked online in recent years,” I read, “showing Mo's body. I refuse to link to those, although I know that sadly it would take only a moment for anyone to find them on less reputable sites. Let me just say that I believe no good can come of those pictures remaining in circulation, and I would ask anyone reading this to consider why they might want to see them. It's my opinion that the girl deserves more respect than to have such shocking images shared in this manner.”
I read the paragraph again, just to make sure that I understand, and then I immediately bring up a new search window. I agree with every word that this man just wrote, and ordinarily I'd never want to see such hideous pictures, but right now I want to prove to myself that the girl I thought I saw in my bedroom as a child was not the girl who was found murdered in the forest. I mean, there's no way I'd have known what she looked like when she was dead, not when I was only seven years old.
I feel sick and wrong just typing the next search phrase, but I do it anyway, and sure enough I quickly find a site that hosts a dozen pictures that look to have been taken by a coroner.
It's her.
As soon as I see the first image, showing the girl's face, I have no doubt whatsoever that it's the girl I saw in my bedroom all those years ago. I tell myself that it's impossible, that I'm wrong, but when I check a second picture I see that I'm right. They're not just similar. They're the exact same girl.
Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm.
I must have seen these pictures when I was a kid. That's the only explanation. At some point, my father must have left them somewhere in the house, and I accidentally stumbled onto them. I was probably traumatized, and then obviously I started hallucinating the same hideous face that I'd seen in the photos. After all, I was seven years old, and kids are impressionable
at that age. Obviously I got myself into a lather and probably thought I could see Mo Garvey around every corner and lurking in every shadow. There's no great mystery there.
Clicking back to the blog page, I take a few minutes to read through some more paragraphs, until I reach another that makes my blood run cold.
“Michael Blaine is an innocent man,” I read out loud. “It is my fervent belief that he was framed for the Mo Garvey murder. He was a good person and I will never believe the lies that have been told about him.”
I pause for a moment.
“You're wrong, Mr. Bischoff,” I whisper finally. “My father -”
“Alex?”
Startled, I spin around and drop the tablet, and my heart is racing as I find that Brad has come through from the porch. After setting some empty beer bottles on the counter, he wanders closer.
“I thought you were fetching some ice,” he tells me.
“I got distracted.”
Leaning down, I pick up the tablet and find that thankfully it's not damaged. Fortunately the lock-screen has come up, so there's no danger of Brad seeing what I was looking at just now.
“Looking something up?” he asks.
I pause, before nodding.
“Right.” He's clearly suspicious. “Are you -”
“I have to take a trip tomorrow,” I tell him, surprising myself with those words. I hadn't even realized that I'd made a decision, but now I realize that I don't have a choice. “I'm going to drive to Impingham.”
“Oh yeah?” I can see from the look in his eyes that he knows where this is headed. “And why are you going all the way to Impingham, Alex?”
“You know why.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I shake my head.
“Are you sure?” He seems to have sobered up now, and I swear there's a hint of concern in his voice. “I thought you wanted to wait a little longer before -”
“There's no time like the present.”
“Isn't tomorrow your first day at the paper?”
“It's just a meet-and-greet,” I point out. “I can reschedule. It's not ideal, but I'll manage.”
“Uh-huh.” He pauses again, before looking at the tablet. “What brought this on?”
“Nothing,” I reply quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly. He must realize I'm hiding something. “It's just time. It's past time, actually. Please don't argue with me, Brad, and please don't keep asking if I'm okay to go alone. I have to go alone. It's another of the things I have to face. Maybe it'll help.”
He watches me for a moment, before suddenly stepping closer and putting his arms around me.
“I'm proud of you,” he whispers. “I know how hard this is going to be.”
“Waiting won't make it any easier,” I reply, even though I desperately want to back out and just stay home tomorrow. “I have to do this. I should have gone to see Mom years ago.”
Chapter Thirty
Sheriff Michael Blaine
20 years ago
It's almost midnight, and I've been sitting in my car for a couple of hours now, watching the bar and waiting for Neil Bloom to come out. I'm starting to suspect that he knows I'm here, and that he's simply going to stay in there until closing time so he can waste my time, but I still can't bring myself to leave.
I'll sit here until 3am if I have to, and then I'll follow the bastard home and sit outside his house. And if I have to leave, even for a second, I'll get Harry to take over for a while. Harry's a good man, he'll help out even if I don't fully explain why. I know I can rely on him.
Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grab a bottle of pills and tip one into the palm of my hand. I shouldn't be relying on medication to keep me awake, but right now I can't afford to sleep. I'll be able to relax once Neil has been taken care of, and I'm convinced that he'll do something wrong soon. For now, as I swallow the pill and chase it down with a swig of water, I can only keep tabs on him and make sure that I don't miss anything.
Leaning back, I take a deep breath, and then a moment later I'm surprised to see the bar's neon sign being switched off. The door opens and a large man comes out, and then he turns and locks the door before starting to walk away.
“Hey!” I call out, climbing out of the car and hurrying after him. “Hold up! What are you doing?”
He stops and turns to me.
“Did you just close the bar?” I ask.
“It's midnight, ain't it?”
“This bar stays open until three.”
“Not anymore. New orders from the boss about a week ago, he's changing thins up. We close at midnight now, except for weekends.”
“But where's Neil Bloom?” I stammer. “He didn't come out.”
“Neil Bloom?” He furrows his brow. “Oh sure, he was in earlier. Stayed for a drink and then split. Creepy guy.”
“I'd have seen him leave,” I reply, taking the badge from my pocket and holding it up. “I'm going to need you to unlock the door. I have reason to believe there's a man still inside the property.”
“He went out the back way.”
“There's no back exit from that bar!”
“There is now,” he explains. “I told you, the boss is changing things. He keeps the gate unlocked at the rear now, so people can leave straight outta the yard if they want. He thinks -”
“Damn it!” I hiss, turning and hurrying back to my car. The barman calls after me but I don't have time to listen, so instead I get into the car and start the engine.
I lost him.
I sat here like a goddamn fool for hours, and Neil Bloom has been on the loose.
The car's tires screech as I race out of the parking lot, but by the time I join the dark street I'm already starting to realize that I don't know where to start with my search. I guess I should swing by Neil's house and see if there's any sign of him, but other than that he could be absolutely anywhere.
And then, as I reach a junction, my radio crackles to life.
***
“Okay, I'm there,” I tell Jean over the radio, before setting the receiver down and climbing out of the car. I can see a marked patrol car parked just a little way ahead, and the house's front door is open.
When I reach the door, I hear voices inside, and a moment later Harry steps into view.
“It's nothing,” he explains as I step inside. “At least, I hope it's nothing. Mr. Brown's wife thought she saw someone watching the house from the bushes, but her husband thinks she was mistaken. I want to agree with him, boss, but I've got a bad feeling. Do you think instinct's a real thing?”
“Did you see his face?” I ask as I enter the front room, where Graham and Connie Brown are sitting with their six-year-old daughter Annie. “You said there was a man watching the house. Did any of you see his face?”
“Annie thought there was someone out there,” Connie replies, stroking her daughter's head, “and when I looked I thought maybe I saw someone too. We're not imagining things.”
“There are no footprints anywhere,” Harry adds. “None that I could see, anyway.”
Reaching into my pocket, I fish out one of the crumpled sets of notes concerning Neil Bloom. After sorting through the papers for a moment, I find a black-and-white photo of his face, which I quickly turn around so that Annie can see.
“What's that?” Annie asks.
“You're not in any trouble,” I explain, as the girl looks at the photo, “but I want you to tell me if that was the man whose face you saw watching you.”
I wait, but so far she simply seems to be concentrating as she stares at the image.
“Isn't that Neil Bloom?” Graham says after a moment.
“Annie,” I continue. “Is this the man you saw?”
“I think so,” she replies, nodding before looking up at her mother as if she's waiting for permission to say more.
“Why would Neil Bloom be watching our house?” Connie asks incredulously. “Mike, I don't understand what you're trying to get at here.”
“Take full statements from them,” I tell Harry as I head to the door. “I want every detail written down.”
“But boss -”
“Just do it!”
As soon as I'm back outside, I head around to the side of the house, making straight for the spot where the little girl supposedly saw a face watching her bedroom window. As soon as I get there, I find a section of shrubbery that looks to have been recently trampled, although Harry was right when he said there were no obvious footprints. Still, making my way around the side of the old apple tree, I'm already starting to figure out what must have happened. I turn and look toward the house, and sure enough I have a perfect view from here of Annie's bedroom window. What's more, there's a drainpipe running straight up to that window, which would probably be more than enough to make a creep like Neil Bloom think he could climb up.
Taking a step back, I suddenly feel something hard under my right foot. When I look down, I spot a syringe with an orange tip.
Reaching down, I pick the syringe up. It clearly hasn't been used yet, but it's not hard to understand what Neil was planning to do. I'm willing to bet any money in the world that this syringe contains some kind of sedative, and that the same sedative was present in Mo Garvey's body. Taking a small clear plastic bag from my pocket, I slip the evidence inside before turning to look around in case anything else was left behind.
And that's when I see him.
About twenty feet away, two angry eyes are staring at me from behind another bush.
“Neil!”
He runs immediately and I set off after him, crashing through the pitch-black undergrowth. I can hear him up ahead, but I lose sight of him until I stumble out onto a path and look around. Spotting a dark figure racing away, I hurry after him again, desperately trying to catch him before he can get away. He quickly disappears around a corner, but I spot him again after a moment, and I see that he's trying to climb over a fence. It's clear that he's struggling, however, and I reach him just in time to grab him by the shirt and haul him down, slamming him against the ground.
