The Dog Who Ate The Flintlock

by Edward Coburn

  Robert left the stroller and the tech where they were and led the way across the street. He didn’t worry about any traffic because he knew all the roads around the park had been blocked to keep the lookie-loos away from the crime scene.

  When they were almost to the car in the driveway a man of about fifty got out and shook hands with Robert. “I’m sorry you had to come here like this Richard.”

  “Do they know for sure it’s her?”

  “No, I’m sorry they don’t. The techs haven’t gotten the bodies out of the car yet, and they won’t know who the bodies in the car belong to or how they died for sure until an autopsy has been performed.”

  “And you still don’t know where Mary Beth is, I presume.” Richard shook his head sadly.

  “No, sir we don’t.

  “Oh God,” Richard Archer covered his eyes and hung his head.

  “But this young man…” Robert pointed at Adam. “Adam may be able to give us some help.”

  “Oh, did you see what happened?”

  “No sir, I did not. Detective Drummond referred to an ability I have.” Adam didn’t want to explain everything to this stranger. He thought it might sound more plausible coming from Drummond. He knew such things he and his family could do were utterly foreign to most people’s frame of reference.

  Robert sensed Adam’s reluctance. “Let’s go in the house, and I will try to explain or Adam can.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Richard said. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to the house for a while now.”

  “I’m sorry you had to wait, but I’ve been at the station meeting with Adam and his family. By the way, this is Mark and Agnes, Adam’s parents,” he pointed at Mark and Agnes. “Folks, this is Richard Archer my wife’s father and Mary Beth’s grandfather. And this amazing young lady,” he put his hand on Sarah’s shoulder, “is Sarah.”

  Richard nodded to each in turn and shook Mark’s proffered hand. Then he regarded Robert questioningly while rubbing his chin. “If they didn’t see what happened, how can they help?”

  “As I said,” Robert said, “if we go into the house I’ll try to explain if it’s okay with them.” He nodded at Mark and Agnes.

  They all followed Robert as he unlocked the front door and led them into the living room. A portrait of Richard held a prominent position above the TV and Mary Beth’s playpen stood a few feet from the couch.

  “That’s the playpen I saw,” Adam said.

  “You described it perfectly,” Robert admitted.

  Richard took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he stared at Adam with a blank look. “What do you mean he described it? I don’t understand.”

  “All right,” Robert said. He glanced from Agnes to Mark and then at Adam. “Is it okay if I explain.”

  They all nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll do my best to get you up to speed.” He explained what had happened at the police station including Sarah’s demonstration and then what Adam saw when he touched the car.

  “You’ll have to forgive me if I seem a bit skeptical, but you’ll have to admit all of this is a bit hard to accept on face value,” Richard said.

  “It was hard for me too,” Robert said, “but there was too much evidence to dismiss. After all, I’m a detective, and I’ve been taught to accept when I’ve seen the proof myself.” He turned to Adam. “What next?”

  Adam walked over to the playpen. He leaned down and picked up a stuffed lion he found in the playpen. Richard watched in surprise as Adam’s face grew red, he hung his head, and his shoulders shook. Richard didn’t reach out because the symptoms he saw were just as Robert had described.

  In a second Adam was back to normal. “Well?” Robert asked.

  Adam hung his arms as if holding a dead weight in each hand. He sadly shook his head. “I’m sorry. All I saw was your wife picking your daughter up from the playpen. The baby was holding this lion, and she dropped it when your wife picked her up. I know that’s no help.”

  “That’s all right,” Robert said. “You said before you’re not in control of your visions so there must be no way to predict what you’ll see. Thanks for trying.”

  Adam reached over to set the lion back down in the playpen and came up with one of Mary Beth’s blankets. Instantly he saw another vision. When his manifestations subsided, Richard gently touched his arm. “Did you see anything helpful this time, Son?”

  Adam miserably shook his head again. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help you. All I saw was your daughter, wrapped up in this blanket, sleeping in the playpen. I know that’s no help at all. I truly wish I could be of some kind of help.”

  “Any idea what the problem is?” Richard asked and then acted slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I know there’s no problem with you. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “That may have been the wrong question, but I do think I know why I’m only getting benign images…”

  “And why’s that,” Robert cut in.

  “As I understand them, although I actually don’t understand them…anyway, my images generally reflect the emotions tied to the object or person I have touched. There must be no strong emotions about the kidnapping attached to these objects.”

  “That would make sense,” Robert said. “This house has always been a peaceful haven for Mary Beth and Molly. The violence happened out there.” He pointed toward the street and the park beyond.

  “Well let’s go out there and see if Adam can get any images,” Richard said.

  “We’ve already done that. He helped with the identity of the man’s body in the car, but the body will still need to be formally identified, of course.”

  “So you think you know who it is?”

  “Yes. We think the body is that of Rupert Stippens. You know, the guy who beat up Molly.”

  “I remember that scumbag very well,” Richard said. “And I’d have to say good riddance to bad rubbish…” He stopped when he realized who else was probably in the car. He let out a small whimper. “God.”

  Robert put a comforting hand on Richard’s shoulder. “I know… It’s all right.”

  Robert whirled on Richard. “It definitely is not all right. My granddaughter is missing, and my daughter is…” he choked out and then walked over to the nearest chair and sat down heavily.

  Mark glanced at Robert. “Well, if there’s nothing more Adam can help with, I think we should leave you two to commiserate alone.”

  “I think that might be best,” Robert said.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help,” Adam said. “Are you sure there’s nothing more…”

  “I don’t know what it would be,” Robert interrupted. “If I can think of anything is there a number where you can be reached.”

  “Yes,” Agnes said. “I’ve written down the name of our hotel and our room number. I thought you might want it.” She handed Robert the piece of paper she’d taken from her purse. “We’re going to be in town for a few more days.”

  “Thank you for this,” he held up the small piece of paper. “Thanks again for trying.”

  “As I said,” Adam said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t have seen something a bit more helpful.”

  “And as I said, I know you did your best, and I’m grateful you were willing to try.” He held the paper up again as he led them to the door. “I’ll defiantly call if I think of anything.” He opened the door and shook Mark’s hand and then Adam’s.

  Before Adam and his family left Morgantown, they visited the campus of West Virginia University. Adam had conversations with a couple of performing arts professors, but no performance classes were going on just then so Adam sat in on one Shakespeare class. When he left the classroom, he thanked the professor and then met his family out in front of the building. They had been exploring the campus and took Adam into the library where he examined the university’s collection of books on the performing arts. Adam informed his parents he didn’t enjoy the Shakespeare class a
t all and didn’t like that particular professor.

  “You can’t let one experience sway your decision one way or the other,” Mark said. “Everybody has less-than-stellar professors in some of their classes. I know I did and your mother complained about a couple of hers as well.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, and I wish we could stay until I could see a performance, but there isn’t a performance scheduled until the end of the summer.”

  “We can’t stay that long,” Agnes said.

  “I know,” Adam said. “I only said I wish we could stay.”

  “Okay then,” Mark said. “Let’s see if we can find someplace to eat on the way back to the hotel.”

  “Good idea,” Agnes said, “I’m famished.”

  PART 2 - 2005

  Chapter 13

  His car was virtually alone on the late night street—not at all surprising in this part of Charleston, West Virginia. He wondered again at the wisdom of this meeting. He’d chosen the time, but he’d let Varkot pick the place.

  As he slowly turned the corner, his headlights flashed on a teen who drew back slightly before taking several steps forward to give him a one-finger salute. In that instant, Phillip saw the crown tattoo on the boy’s neck. His years in the NYPD clued him into the fact the boy was a member of the East Street Kings, the New York gang that reportedly now had more members in West Virginia than in New York. What he didn’t see was the cell phone in the boy’s hand into which he now said only two words, “He’s here.” He then dialed the phone a second time and said the same two words.

  Phillip stopped his car in front of an old, abandoned warehouse. He noticed most of the windows on the upper level were broken and several pieces of the metal roof dangled precariously. He saw little difference when he turned off his headlights because of the intensity of the full moon. The one important difference was his headlights had temporarily illuminated the front of the warehouse whereas it was now in deep shadow. The forbidding doorway was almost hidden in the darkest indentation.

  He speed dialed his office. “I’m going in. Remember, if I don’t call sometime in the next ten minutes, call Bruce.”

  “Will do, but as I’ve already said, I really wish you wouldn’t do this,” his secretary stated in the whiny tone she knew he hated.

  Phillip frowned at the phone. He knew she was right just as he had known she was right when she expressed her opinion to him the first, second, and third time, but he wasn’t about to let her tell him what to do. Not now, not ever. She worked for him not the other way around. “I know you’ve told me…and told me…and told me.” He said with an exasperated sigh. And I told you, if I wanted mothering, I’d have hired her instead of you. So cool it.”

  “Yes sir,” she answered brusquely taking his rebuke with a grain of salt as she always did. “Five minutes.” It would do her no good to continue arguing. She knew she would never change one of his bull-headed attitudes even though she definitely didn’t feel right about this meeting. Varkot’s reputation made her nervous as did the reputations of many of the other people Phillip had to deal with as a private investigator.

  When Phillip stepped out of the car the slight breeze ruffled the shirttail hanging below his light jacket. Since leaving the force three years earlier, the only time he tucked in his shirt was when meeting a new client and then only when that client was from a high brow corporation or a high brow family. He considered such formalities too much like the uniform he'd been forced to wear all those years. Then, when he finally made detective, he was forced to wear a suit which had been even worse.

  He wrinkled his nose at the combined odors of vomited wine, smoke from a cheap cigar, and stale urine that wafted his way on the wind. A glance down the alley let him know the smells most likely came from the prone form huddled half in and half out of a cardboard box and under a ratty blanket that had seen better days. The clatter of a trash can lid startled him, but the shriek of an alley cat and a quick glance to his left revealed there was no one was about. He approached the door cautiously, glancing to the left and right. The youth who’d given him the finger was still standing where he’d been. No one else was about.

  The door was unlocked as Phillip had expected. He took a deep breath, pulled out his pistol, and the door creaked open on protesting, rusty hinges. The squeal reminded Phillip of the scary movies he’d watched as a kid which had generally given him nightmares. He shivered involuntarily and chided himself for such silliness. Things really didn’t go bump in the night. Only people did. He was mentally as well as physically prepared for whoever might be rattling around inside the warehouse. So he pushed his unreasonable fears and instincts aside and stepped through the doorway.

  He took out his penlight which afforded him barely enough light to illuminate the blackened hallway. He hugged the wall and pointed his gun at every closed doorway he inched past. He guessed the doors led to offices for the people who had worked in the warehouse in years past. How many years ago he couldn’t even speculate. After he passed the last doorway, he quickly swung the gun forward least someone try to jump him from the end of the hallway. No one did. The corridor opened into a vast, empty storage area. A lone figure stood in the middle of the room—a single light bulb illuminating him and little else.

  "That you Mardoff?" The voice that Phillip recognized was that of a long-time smoker, deep and raspy, as was the cough that followed.

  "Who else would be in this rat hole at this time of night, Varkot?" As if to emphasize his words, a mouse scurried through the small circle of light on the floor being cast by his penlight. The mouse left tiny tracks in the thick layer of dust on the floor which also showed several sets of footprints much larger than the tiny ones left behind by the mouse. Phillip tried to follow the footprints with his penlight, but the penlight only illuminated ten feet or so before being swallowed by the intense blackness of the warehouse. He couldn’t be sure how old the footprints were, but he didn’t think they were recent, so they weren’t left by anyone who posed a threat at the moment.

  The moon tried to penetrate the gloom through the broken windows high on the walls but was ineffectual. Even though the light from the illuminated bulb was dim, Phillip easily recognized the tall, husky man with the oft-broken, crooked nose, the ugly scar over his right eye, the dimpled chin, and his cue-ball baldness. This was definitely Anton Varkot.

  Unknown to either of them a silent figure stood in a dark corner of the warehouse, holding a pistol, watching Varkot and Mardoff holding his tiny flashlight. Marco was there to protect Varkot, but more importantly, he was there to protect Carlo Donati’s secrets. Carlo had sent him there to listen in on what Varkot and Mardoff talked about. Donati had mentioned that although Varkot had always been one of his most trusted lieutenants, someone had been leaking information to the cops, and he had his suspicions it might be Varkot. Thus, this time Donati wanted him watched.

  Marco knew Varkot had a strong survival instinct and he didn’t take chances with his freedom— killing or ordering killings when necessary. Marco also knew Varkot would pass information to the cops and anyone else if it served his nefarious purposes. That was how he’d managed to stay out of jail all these years. Marco knew this well and knew Donati knew it too—which is why Donati had ordered Marco to watch Varkot and listen to whatever was said in case Varkot passed the wrong or too much information to Mardoff. Donati wasn’t going to let Varkot bring down any part of his organization. So, Marco watched and listened with his parabolic microphone from his unseen position—poised to do whatever was necessary should Varkot need his help or if he should need to silence Varkot and, possibly, Mardoff. He had seen Mardoff’s gun, but Varkot didn’t seem to feel threatened, so Marco wasn’t worried. Should Mardoff make any threatening moves, however, Marco was ready to move with deadly force should that prove necessary.

  Marco was also recording the interaction between Varkot and Mardoff. It was the only safe thing to do if Varkot happened to say something that would force Marco to kill hi
m or Mardoff or both of them. He was recording the confrontation because he knew Donati would need proof. He was certain Donati wouldn’t just accept his word that Varkot had given Donati or someone in his organization up to Mardoff. Marco didn’t want Donati to feel the need to gid rid of him for what Donati might deem an overstep of his orders. So he listened and recorded.

  Phillip knew better than to trust Varkot even though Varkot had done him and the police a favor several months earlier. Varkot had given Phillip information that Phillip had passed on, and that information led to the capture of a vigilante who had been killing low-level drug dealers who had been selling to kids in the vigilante’s neighborhood. The fact that many of the dealers worked for Varkot hadn’t escaped Phillip’s notice. Varkot had merely been protecting his own flow of profits. However, Phillip’s past training wouldn’t let him ignore vigilante justice no matter how much it actually benefited society.

  “This is your meeting,” Varkot said. “What you want this time?”

  Phillip took three steps closer to Varkot and raised his hand slightly flashing the light on the gun he still held so Varkot could see it. “We are alone, are we not?” He swung the penlight to the right and left to emphasize his caution. He futilely tried again to follow the path of the footsteps in the dust though he still had no guess as to how long the footprints had been there.

  “Does it look like anyone else is here?” Varkot waved his hand to indicate the vast emptiness.

  “Since I can’t see in the dark it’s impossible for me to say,” Phillip said as he waved the penlight around again though it was useless against the deep gloom of the warehouse. “And I don’t like being a sitting duck so move into the hall.” Phillip waved his gun toward the hallway and took a step back when Varkot got close. He then followed Varkot into the hallway.

  When he reached the middle of the hallway, Varkot pivoted to look directly at Phillip. “Satisfied? What you want?”