by A.R. Wise
* * *
Lincoln was nearing Angel Harcourt’s house later than intended. She lived about an hour from Boulder, up in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, in a town called Eversprings. It’d been a mining town, established during the gold rush of the mid-1800’s, when prospectors coming from the east had reached the arduous terrain blocking their path to California and decided one mountain was as good as the next. The mines of Eversprings never yielded much more than stone and coal, and the town’s growth never exceeded a thousand residents.
There were a total of three stoplights in town. Eversprings boasted a hardware store, a couple restaurants, a grocery store that doubled as a post office, and not much else. It was the sort of town where the residents still waved at cars passing through, a rarity that Lincoln was enchanted by as he drove along Main Street in search of Thatcher Road. The mountains hugged the town as if trying to smother it, with rock faces looming above, dotted with outcroppings where plants crowded, rooted into any place they could survive. Lincoln wondered how often rocks would come loose and fall down onto the buildings around town, and what that likelihood did to the residents’ insurance bills.
The GPS unit on his car alerted him that his turn was coming up, and he glanced to his right with a frown. There was a rock face beside him, and it didn’t seem possible that a road could head that way. As he reached the corner, he discovered that Thatcher Road climbed precipitously up, with no railing to prevent motorists from going over the side and falling down the long drop.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Lincoln as he looked up the intimidating climb.
Lincoln had lived in Colorado most of his life, but he still hated traversing the mountains. During a drive like this, where he was forced to head up into the mountains, he had a bad habit of counting the wreaths and crosses on the side of the road marking the spot where a motorist’s life had come to a disastrous and sudden end. On this trip the count was already at nine.
He edged along, driving at a jogger’s pace. A pickup truck came rumbling up behind him, moving fast until forced to slow down behind Lincoln’s Mercedes. The man driving looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a cap and sunglasses, and with a bushy beard. He was certainly a local, accustomed to these white-knuckle roads.
“Sorry, pal,” said Lincoln. “This is as fast as I’m going.”
The driver behind him got fed up with the pace and went into the empty oncoming traffic lane to pass, which Lincoln was more than happy to accommodate. He waved at the truck as it went by and smiled while muttering a curse.
Thatcher Road wound its way through the mountains until it reached a fork where signs made it clear that drivers were entering private property. Lincoln followed his GPS, and continued on Thatcher Road instead of taking the turnoff. The road began another steep climb that ended at a switchback, which was nerve-racking, but meant that Lincoln would no longer be driving beside the edge once he made the turn. The second half of the trip up was longer than the first, but the incline got gradually easier and soon the road turned off onto a flatter, wooded area. This was the type of landscape that the people who lived here craved. If not for the occasional mailboxes beside gravel driveways that sprouted from the road, one might assume this was a national park. The trees were tall and packed tightly together, dominating the view as if preparing to collapse upon the road. A shallow stream ran alongside Thatcher Road, splashing over rocks as it went.
Despite the beauty, Lincoln couldn’t help but think of what it would be like to live here in the winter, when at any moment a storm might come across the mountains and dump a few feet of snow, trapping the residents until the sun got around to melting them free.
The GPS in Lincoln’s car offered only the vaguest suggestion of where Angel’s house was, landing the destination marker square in the center of the forest at a spot he’d already passed. He checked his phone and discovered that the Geolocator app that Hector had installed was doing a more admirable job of mapping his destination.
“There you are,” he said as he pulled into the driveway of Cabin 6, Thatcher Road. The driveway went over a rickety bridge that crossed the stream, and then down a slight decline to what looked like a vacation home. It was tiny, no more than two bedroom, with a wraparound porch and stone foundation. Angel Harcourt was on the porch, sitting on a two-person swing, sipping iced tea as Lincoln pulled up.
“I was starting to get worried about you,” said Angel. She stood and walked to the railing to greet him. She was wearing a sundress, yellow with white flowers, and her long blonde hair was draped over her shoulders. She had very little makeup on, which suited her fine, and she was barefoot. Her dress wasn’t new, evident by the faded color, and she didn’t have a single piece of jewelry on. She exuded simple beauty, a stark contrast to Lincoln’s impeccable attire. For the first time he could remember, he felt ashamed of his suit and tie.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Lincoln. “I’m a flatlander.”
“Not from around here?” she asked. There was a pair of white and yellow canvas flats by the steps. She slipped them on before walking onto the gravel.
“I’ve lived in Boulder for years, but I don’t go up into the mountains much.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not a big fan of heights.”
“You picked the wrong state to live in,” she joked.
“It’s half and half,” he said with a shrug. “I prefer staying on the flat half with the mountains at a safe distance.” When she got closer, he extended his hand. She demurely took it, and her hand felt as delicate as a rose. He barely squeezed her hand as he shook it, as if worried he might crush it, and after releasing he wondered if he should’ve kissed it. Something about Angel’s quiet modesty made him nervous. He felt like a young man from another generation courting a longtime crush.
Angel had the faintest blue eyes he’d ever seen, almost grey, like the down of a baby bluebird. She was a gorgeous woman, but he was drawn inexplicably to her eyes. They revealed trepidation and a sadness that she tried to hide with a smile. Her eyes reminded him of Darcy, and the way she used to look after her chemotherapy had stolen all but a sliver of her will to live. They immediately broke his heart, and he felt ashamed for dragging this woman back into the morass of sorrow that’d certainly corrupted her past decade.
Her child had never come home, and she never stopped waiting for the day he did. Lincoln was guilty of dredging up the past, a tourist in the agony she endured.
“Thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me,” said Lincoln. “I can’t express just how much it means to me, and how sorry I am for your loss.”
She looked down and nodded. “It’s better for me to get it out of the way. I figured something like this would happen, what with the anniversary coming up. It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years already.” She forced a smile and changed her tone as she said, “You look nice. I feel a little underdressed. I’d offer to change, but this ratty old thing is the nicest dress I own.” She laughed and pinched the sides of her dress to hold it out on display for him.
“You look stunning,” said Lincoln.
“Thanks,” she said with a tone that implied she didn’t believe him. “If I’d known you hated heights, I would’ve gone down to meet you.”
“It’s no problem,” said Lincoln. “It’s about time I force myself to get used to driving in the mountains. Although that switchback back there,” he pointed in the direction of Thatcher Road. “That’s a beast.”
“You should try driving it in the winter. The plows don’t come up this way.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” said Lincoln as he walked around to open the passenger side door for her. She thanked him as she got in, and then he went around to the driver’s side to get in as well. “Do me a favor and don’t make fun of me for driving slowly down the hill.”
“I won’t. I promise.” She stroked her fingertips along the leather interior and mentioned how nice his car was. She nodded towards the detached
garage at the end of the driveway and said that Lincoln’s car put her rusty pickup to shame. After a few minutes of small talk about cars and the importance of four-wheel drive in the mountains, she broached the subject that’d brought them together, “Have the Klines told you about the other detectives they’ve hired?”
“No, actually,” said Lincoln. “Although I’ve heard they hired a few P.I.s over the years.”
“More than a few. For the longest time they wouldn’t leave us alone.” There was venom in her words, and she immediately apologized for it. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound angry. It’s just… It’s hard – digging it up all over again, time after time. For the first few years I hated them. I mean, I hated them so much. I blamed them for what their son did.” She looked out her window and muttered under her breath, “I hated them so much.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you?” she asked pointedly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve heard that a thousand times. People say they understand, but I don’t know how they can. Trent Kline killed my son. He butchered him.” Her anger mounted, and then she seemed to shut down. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back as she took a deep breath. “I remember everyone always saying that it’d get easier as time went on; that I’d find a way to be happy again. We’re going on ten years now, and I’m still waiting.”
After a moment of silence, Lincoln said, “You’re right, I can’t relate. But I can empathize. My daughter had leukemia.”
Angel raised her head and looked at him. She offered a quiet, compassionate apology.
“My wife…” He corrected himself, “My ex-wife and I never let ourselves talk about the ‘What ifs.’ We couldn’t think about it, so we convinced ourselves that Darcy was going to be fine, but all the while the Grim Reaper kept creeping into my thoughts. I used to have dreams about her funeral, and that tiny casket.” He shivered. “It still haunts me.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t think there’s anything worse than seeing one of those half-size coffins. We bought one for Devin. We had a funeral even though there was nothing left of him to put in his casket. I don’t even bother going to his grave anymore. What’s the point? It’s just an empty box in the ground.”
Lincoln didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, he focused on the road ahead as they drove down Thatcher Road on the way to the switchback. The road hadn’t seemed this steep on his way up, but now he was tempted to put the car in a low gear to take the corner as slow as possible as gravity tried to pull him along. There was a guard rail, but it was rusted and probably useless. He stressed his brakes until he made it to the turn, and crept along slow and steady.
“Do you know what they told me?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “The investigators said there was so much blood that Trent must’ve strung my baby up like a farm animal to be butchered. They said he probably cut Devin to pieces. Apparently that’s the only way there could be so much blood.” She was struggling to recount the details, as if each sentence was a battle to avoid weeping. “The lead forensics guy talked to me. I’ll never forget it. He talked so casually about it, like he was just recounting another boring day at work. He said that when a person dies, the body stops pumping blood and it settles. They said that Trent must’ve cut Devin up to get all that blood, and then took him out piece by piece to throw him away in the woods. That’s why they never found him. Because the animals out there snatched him up.” She paused in grief. “He let animals eat my baby boy.”
Lincoln had no response. He doubted the entire English language contained a proper one.
“So, yeah,” said Angel as if in exhalation. “I was pretty angry at the Klines for a long time, but, I’ve started to come around. I’ll never forgive their son, but I can forgive them for not letting go. I don’t understand how they still say their son was innocent, but I understand their grief.” After a moment she chuckled and said, “I’m sure they’ve had a lot of choice things to say about me.”
“I haven’t spoken with them yet.”
Angel looked at him in surprise. “Really? Aren’t they the ones who hired you?”
“No, actually. No one hired me.”
“Then why are you looking into the case?”
“If you want to know the brutal truth, it’s all just a pathetic attempt to get my daughter to spend more time with me.” He glanced over and saw her puzzled look. “Darcy went to school with Betty and Devin. She was in the same grade.”
“Oh.”
“Her and a few of her friends started a band in honor of Betty. They’re still together. As a matter of fact, they’ve got a show out in Loveland tonight. I thought that if I started an investigation into the murders, she’d be willing to spend a little more time with me. After the divorce it feels like I hardly ever see her anymore.”
“Did it work?”
Lincoln nodded, “Unbelievably it did. She’s quitting her job next week to come and work with me.”
“If the Klines didn’t hire you, then who’s paying for all this?”
“You saw the website, right?” asked Lincoln. “It’s all based on crowdfunding. We’re hoping there are enough people who want the case solved that we can fund this with their donations.”
“The case was solved,” said Angel, annoyed.
Lincoln felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Right, but you’ve got to be aware that an awful lot of people out there think Trent’s innocent. If he’s guilty, someone needs to prove it, once and for all.”
“And you think you can do that? Don’t you think the police are better qualified to solve the case?”
“I’m sure they did their best, but there’re still a lot of questions that need to be answered. When they do, people might finally believe that Trent did it. In fact, I just had a meeting today that was supposed to exonerate Trent, and it still left me with more questions than answers.”
“How so?”
“You remember the name Grant Hedland?”
She nodded.
“He admitted to me that he used to deal drugs to Trent, just like everyone suspected. But here’s the thing that no one’s talking about yet: Trent knew there was a camera in the employee lot at the mall, and that it could be shut off.”
“Oh really?” asked Angel, surprised by the new information. “No one ever told me there was a camera there.”
“The police never talked about it because the camera wasn’t recording. I think it’s because there were people at the mall who knew Grant was dealing, and helped him do it. Which could mean that Trent was telling the truth, but not necessarily. Grant said he couldn’t remember whether he sold to Trent the day of the murders. Everyone assumes that Grant getting busted for dealing at the mall proves that Trent’s innocent, but if Grant can’t remember for sure then it might not prove anything. And if Trent knew how to turn off that camera, then the prosecution’s timeline could be true.”
“That’s interesting, but let me give you a piece of friendly advice,” said Angel as she sat up straighter and pulled down her visor to inspect herself in the mirror. “To convince the Klines that their son was a murderer, you’re going to need God himself to come down with video proof. I mean, for crying out loud, the cops found the murder weapon buried in their yard. What more proof do you need?”
“I know, but the problem with the knife and the shoe is that the cops didn’t find that until the kids had been missing for over three weeks. If Trent wasn’t the killer, then whoever was responsible would’ve had plenty of time to plant the evidence.”
“And what about the journal? That little monster used Devin’s blood to draw all sorts of satanic symbols all over that shack – the same sort of symbols that were in his journal.”
“Right, I know,” said Lincoln, trying to be delicate. “But, and I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, the pictures from the journal were all over the news too.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Angel. “This has been one of
the things that’s so frustrating to me about people saying Trent was innocent. They always bring up how the real killer used pictures from Trent’s journal to draw the symbols at the shack, but that’s not even possible. The police kept Trent’s journal out of the news. It wasn’t until the trial started that the pictures were made public. The only people who saw it before the trial were the police, Trent’s family, and a few other people involved in the case.”
“Really?” asked Lincoln, uncertain if she was right.
“Look it up yourself. It’s in the court transcripts. The prosecutor went over that point, but for some reason no one ever seems to remember it. Selective memory at its finest.”
“I’ll have to look into that.”
“They brought that hateful, demonic journal to show me after they found it, and they had all sorts of questions about it. They thought maybe Devin and Trent were friends, and wanted to know if Devin was into that devil worshiping crap too. Which he wasn’t,” she said pointedly, as if to preempt a question. “He was a good boy. If only people knew just how good a boy he was, and how evil Trent was. Maybe then we could lay this to rest.”
“That’s the most important thing about this case to me. I want the truth to come out, whatever it may be. I’m not opposed to believing that Trent was guilty.”
“Good.”
Lincoln waited a moment before asking, “Do you remember much about the day Betty and Devin disappeared?”
“Of course. I remember every second like it was burned into my brain. It’s the worst day of my life.”
“I hate to ask, but would you mind running through it with me?”
“That’s why I’m here, right?”
Lincoln took out the digital recorder and showed it to her. “Mind if I tape you?”
“No, that’s fine.”
He turned the recorder on and set it in the cup holder with the microphone pointed in her direction. “Go ahead, start whenever you’re ready.”
She sighed, steeled herself, and then recounted her story, “I had the day off work. I was a nurse at Longmont United…” She paused and corrected herself, “No, that’s not exactly true. Back at that time I was still a phlebotomist. I didn’t become an RN until a couple years later. Anyways, I had the day off and I was waiting for Devin to come home because I needed to get some shopping done and I wanted to take him along. He knew he was supposed to come right home, so when he didn’t show up I got worried.”
Angel paused again, tilted her head slightly, and then said, “No, that’s not exactly true either. If I’m being 100% honest, I was angry. It hurts to even say that, but the truth is I was pissed. He knew he was supposed to come right home, and I assumed he went over to Betty’s.”
“To Betty’s?” asked Lincoln. “Did he go there often?”
“Unfortunately,” said Angel. “I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but some of his friends told me that Betty had a thing for him. He used to hang around her house a lot. That’s why the police assumed he was friends with Trent. I don’t think it ever got serious between Devin and Betty. They were just kids, but that’s around the age where hormones start flying. Devin was a good kid, but the Klines were a bad influence on him. Even before the murders, I had a bad feeling about Trent. Devin would tell me stories about what his room was like, and how he acted in the house. Did you know he used to curse at his parents and tell them that he wanted to kill them?”
“No, I haven’t heard about that.”
“Oh yeah, he was a real peach. Sorry, back to the story. At around a quarter to four I called over to the Klines’ house to see if Devin was there. No one answered, so I decided to go out and look for him. I walked about halfway to the school before turning around and going home to see if somehow we’d missed each other. By that time it was about a quarter after four. It was around then that I called Frank – he’s my ex-husband. I wanted to let him know that I hadn’t seen Devin and to ask if maybe there was some off chance that he knew where he was. He didn’t, so I ran up and down the street calling Devin’s name before I called the Klines’ bakery. They didn’t know anything, so that’s when I called the police. I think by that time it was around a quarter after five.”
“You’ve got a pretty good memory,” said Lincoln, impressed.
“Trust me, after going to trial and dealing with lawyers you get real used to memorizing timelines. I had to sit there and listen to the lawyers duke it out about every minute of that afternoon.” She fidgeted, and it was clear that recalling the details of that day was hard for her. “After I called the police they got there fast. I tried to tell them that Devin had never made it home, but they insisted on searching the house first. I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier in my whole life than when they wasted time at the house before going out to search the neighborhood. I was screaming bloody murder at them. They didn’t find anything at our house, of course, so then one of the cops went over to the Klines’ while a couple of others started to drive up and down the street.”
Angel’s hands were trembling, and she clasped them in her lap to try and keep them still. She took a deep breath, and Lincoln knew she was stifling the welling emotions. “I started searching the area as soon as the cops would let me. They kept trying to get me to stay at the house, but there was no way I was going to. If my baby was out there somewhere, I was going to do everything in my power to find him. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. He was my baby. The last thing I wanted to do was sit at home, totally helpless, and wait.”
“Where was your husband? Did he come to Boulder too?”
“He didn’t leave work right away. But he came to help look for Devin. I don’t remember what time he got there. It was after six. I’d say you should ask him yourself, but unless you buy a ticket to Mexico, you’re out of luck.”
“Mexico?”
She nodded. “He moved out there a couple years ago.”
“Do you know where?”
“Tijuana, last I heard. He wanted to be somewhere close to the border, so that he could come and go.”
Lincoln wanted to be careful about his next statement. “Were you aware of the theory that your ex was responsible for the murders?”
She nodded, and was quick to discount the idea, “Yes, and it’s just as ridiculous as the rest. There are conspiracy theories about almost everyone involved. For some reason, this case made it into the Conspiracy-Culture Zeitgeist. That’s what I heard someone call it.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s how the internet gives whack-jobs a place to preach. There’s been a rise in conspiracy theorists over the past couple decades, and it’s poisoning our culture. You can hardly turn on the television without seeing a show about how the CIA killed Kennedy, or how George Bush ordered 9-11. For any story that gets national attention, there’ll be people claiming some sort of conspiracy about it. Trent Kline became a darling of those type of idiots. They turned him into some sort of psychopathic martyr. They came up with a million wild theories about how Trent was framed. They blamed the cops, my ex, the Klines, me… Once they even said Betty was the killer. I remember reading an article about how Betty was a Satan worshipper too, and how she ran off into the mountains to live in the wild. They said she’s still out there hunting kids to perform her rituals, like a horror movie.”
“I’ll take it for granted you don’t believe the theories about your ex.”
She gave him a steely gaze, “No. Frank was in Denver. He was one of the first people the police ruled out as a suspect. I have no earthly idea why the idiot conspiracy theorists think he had something to do with it.”
Lincoln didn’t want to press her for more, content to let the conversation die off for the moment. She was getting upset, and they hadn’t even made it to the restaurant yet.
Angel decided to end the conversation succinctly, “It’s simple, but for some reason people don’t want to believe the truth. Trent killed his sister and my son. He did it; he got caught; end of story.”
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