by Tim Green
Jake took Judy’s map from his pocket and in the light of the stars got his bearings according to the placement of the reflecting pool and the position of the house. From where he stood, Jake couldn’t see the front of the place or the garages where any cars might be parked. He didn’t see a sign of any kind of guards patrolling the grounds, and suspected that the man he’d seen in the Suburban by the gates focused his attention on that spot since that was where any vehicles would have to go to enter the estate.
After five minutes with no sights or sounds to warn him off, Jake retrieved Sam and the shovel and quickly ducked into the shadows of the trees to make his way to the family cemetery. The scent of cut grass laced with a hint of lilacs began to tickle his nose.
Jake felt his heart quicken at the sight of the headstones. From the photo in the newspaper he and Judy had guessed that Martha’s baby—or the coffin that was supposed to contain it—was buried in the southeast corner of the plot. He crouched low and searched through them. When he clanged the shovel’s spade off a granite headstone, Jake dove to the grass and pulled Sam down too.
“Wha—”
Jake clapped a hand over Sam’s mouth and whispered in his ear not to make another sound.
When his heart began to slow, he peeked up over the stone they were hiding behind and scouted the area between them and the mansion. After a minute of seeing nothing, he started to creep forward again. Instead of using the full beam of the flashlight to read the inscriptions, Jake held it inside his coat, pointing it at the liner before he flicked it on, keeping his body between the house and the stones. In the dull glow he could just make out the words engraved on the stones. The fifth one he came to bore the name JOSHUA VAN BUREN-EGGERS.
Sam ran his hand absently along the edges of the smooth granite surface while Jake removed the DVD camera and turned it on.
“Don’t get excited,” Jake said in a low voice. “I’m going to turn the camera light on.”
“They’ll see it.”
Jake looked up at the house. It was still nearly two hundred yards away.
“Someone would have to be looking right out at us,” Jake said. “And with all the lights on inside, the reflection should be like a mirror.”
“What if somebody’s outside?” Sam said.
“If this was easy,” Jake said, holding the camera out in front of him and flipping on the light, “everyone would do it.”
Sam winced at the light and turned his head away, shading his eyes in the bath of electric whiteness.
“Jeez, Dad.”
“Can you come here and hold it right there?” Jake asked. He shot the inscription, then zoomed out so he could clearly see the headstone and the plot of grass in front of it.
“Okay,” Jake said, handing it over.
He left Sam with the camera rolling, stepped into the light, took up the shovel, and began to dig. The shovel’s new edge cut into the turf with a sharp scratching sound that punctuated the tumbling dirt clods from the previous spadeful of dirt.
“You can’t dig a grave,” Sam said.
“It’s not a grave,” Jake said. “Not if it’s empty.”
“Jesus, how do you know?” Sam asked in a high-pitched voice.
“Trust me,” Jake said, attempting an authoritative tone that came out sounding angry. “I just know. It’ll prove they took her baby. Whether it’s you or someone else, this will prove it.”
Adrenaline flooded Jake’s veins, spurring his work into a pace that filled the beam of light from the camera with a swirling cloud of dust. When the shovel struck the casket, he dug faster still, nipping at the earth without bothering to dump out the dirt, until the lip of the container was exposed. He slipped the edge of his spade underneath it and used the shovel as a lever, leaning on the handle, forcing it up and down until the casket popped loose. Jake knelt and pulled it out of the ground, setting it on its side.
He fidgeted with the clasp for a minute, then let go, stepped back, and raised the shovel. He hesitated for a moment, then set his mouth and swung the blade, busting the latch and partially spilling the contents onto the ground. Tossing the shovel aside, he knelt and separated the lid from the container. The ragged blanket was stained dark brown and he gingerly peeled away its folds, wincing at the stale-smelling rot, his throat constricted so tightly that he gulped for air. The light from the camera wobbled.
Then he froze, and gasped. Protruding from the remains of the blanket was a small dusty white bone.
57
INSTEAD OF TURNING AWAY and giving in to the surge of bile in the back of his mouth, Jake tore into the blanket, pulling aside the tiny bones until he raised a skull from the smelly mess. He held it up to the camera and rotated it in the brilliant light.
“Not human,” Jake said, swallowing and choking back a gag. He glanced at Sam’s wide-eyed face, staring at him in disbelief from the edge of the light. “I think it’s from an animal, maybe a small dog. Look at the teeth.”
Jake stared grimly into the camera for a moment, offering up the elongated skull. Then he stood up and took the shaking camera from Sam’s hands. The sudden darkness was so complete after the glaring light that Jake could see nothing. He sensed Sam, however, his bulky shape moving close to Jake, reaching out and touching his arm. Jake felt for him and pulled him close, into a rough hug.
“I told you,” he said.
His eyes hadn’t fully adjusted when he heard the shouts of people coming from the direction of the house. Over Sam’s shoulder he saw the swaying beams of light from several flashlights stabbing at the darkness and moving toward them.
“Come on,” Jake said, pushing Sam away, shoving the camera back into the bag, and swinging it over his shoulder.
Sam was bent over the shovel and as Jake scooped up the skull and jammed it into his coat pocket, he told Sam to leave it, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him toward the terrace in a full run.
When they reached the terrace, Jake looked back. The lights had reached the cemetery and the shouts rang out clear. Spotlights burst alive, blazing from every corner of the mansion, bathing the entire grounds in white light. Jake blocked the light with his arm and heard the high whine of an ATV before it shot around the corner of the mansion and headed their way along the reflecting pool.
He and Sam scurried down the steps and hopped the low wall, scrambling along the steep bank and back the way they’d come. Jake was afraid to run along the wall, so they plunged into the woods, pushing through thicket after thicket, always keeping the glow of Ridgewood to their backs and off to their right.
As the woods began to open up and their way became easier, a giddy refrain of laughter bubbled up out of Jake’s throat.
“Those lights are gonna get us right back to the car,” he said, grinning at Sam, even though they couldn’t see each other’s faces.
“What’s that?” Sam asked in a hushed tone. “Shh.”
“What’s what?” Jake said.
He held his breath and his smile faded. He heard it, too. The sound of baying dogs.
58
COME ON,” JAKE SAID, tugging at Sam and probing the woods ahead of them with his light as he ran.
Every few seconds he’d glance back in order to keep his bearings in the darkness. The sound of the dogs grew closer. Sam tripped and fell and Jake yanked him up. They both huffed for breath. Then, at its farthest edge, the flashlight’s beam caught something flat and gray.
“The road,” Jake said. “There it is.”
The dogs sounded even closer. They broke through the trees and Jake shined his light up the road one way, then the other. They were closer to the gates than he’d expected.
“Run, Sam,” he said.
He pulled at Sam, who was doubled over trying to catch his breath. They started up the road toward their car. Jake swung his light along the edge of the woods, frantic for a sign. Fifty more yards and the beam reflected off the taillight.
“There it is,” he said.
The sound of the
dogs exploded from the woods, a maniacal snarling punctuated by eager yelps as they hit the road. Jake looked back and saw their snapping white teeth, two of them, big and dark, Dobermans or rottweilers. He fished for the keys in his pocket without slowing down, found them, and hit the remote door lock. The car lights blinked on.
“Get in!” he screamed at Sam.
Jake got to the car first. He flung open the door. Sam dove in. Jake started to slam it shut, but the dogs were fifteen feet away. He jumped in on top of Sam and yanked the door closed on a snapping muzzle. The dog shrieked, but didn’t back off, even though its jaws were wedged in the door. It snarled and spit, and the sharp teeth worked open and closed as best they could.
Jake held the door with both hands, knowing that if he let go, the dogs would be inside and tearing them to pieces.
“Sam!” Jake yelled, not even knowing what he wanted his son to do.
Sam wormed an arm out from under Jake, made a fist, and hammered the dog square in the nose. The dog shrieked again, this time pulling free from the door. Jake yanked it shut. He shucked off the camera bag and tossed it in the back, then squirmed off of Sam and into the driver’s seat.
Outside the dogs circled the car, snapping, snarling, and roaring. Jake fired up the BMW and spun his tires, kicking up rocks, sticks, and grit as they fishtailed out of the woods, up the bank, and onto the road. He never let his foot off the gas until he almost lost it on a bend, looked down, and saw that he was doing over ninety.
He slowed some, but kept an eye in the mirror, expecting any moment to see headlights closing on them. When he did see a pair of lights, his throat tightened, but he kept his speed steady. The car, whoever it was, wasn’t chasing him. Instead, it kept its distance. He was gauging the distance between them and the car behind them when he blinked and out of nowhere saw a swath of white light rolling up the road. He realized what it was the moment he heard the staccato sound of the helicopter. He cursed out loud.
An instant later, their car was awash in the light. The beam wavered, but stayed locked on them. Jake forgot about the car behind him. He floored the accelerator. The light stayed with them as they sped for the town of Rhinecliff.
“Dad?”
Jake’s mind whirred. He fished the cell phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sam.
“Take this, and get the camera up here,” he said. “There’s a train station in Rhinecliff.”
“So?”
“You take the DVD out,” Jake said, his hands clasped to the wheel and his jaw set. “When I stop, you stay down. I’m going to run and when the light goes with me, you wait. Count to twenty and then get to the train station. Here, take money out of my wallet. Take a credit card, too. Get a ticket to Poughkeepsie and get on that train. I’ll have Judy pick you up there. Dial her number for me. Do that first, then get the DVD.”
Jake told Sam where he stored the number. Sam found it, then dialed, and handed the phone back to Jake. He got voice mail, left a message, and tried again. Judy answered. Jake told her what he needed and she said she’d be there.
Route 85 ran through the center of the little town. Up ahead, flashing lights from a cop car were headed toward them. Jake saw a side street, figured to pass it, then changed his mind, spinning the wheel. His cell phone banged off the window and thumped to the floor. The car screeched around a corner and popped up over the curb. Jake fishtailed in a lawn, then got back onto the pavement and took the side street down toward the river and the train tracks. When he saw the old brick station, he pointed to it.
“See it?” he shouted. “You got the disc?”
“Dad, I don’t want to go,” Sam said, but holding up the small gleaming disc for Jake to see.
“You gotta do what I say,” Jake said. “Buy a goddamn ticket and get off at Poughkeepsie. Stay in the car until the light’s gone.”
“What about you?”
“Just take the disc and get on that train.”
He looked over at his son, slowed the car, and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve got to do this, Sam. I need you. Just count to twenty.”
Sam’s face crumpled, but he nodded. Jake pulled over, slammed the car into park, and bolted out.
As he ran up the street, the chopping roar of the helicopter swept up a storm of dust and grit and the searchlight stayed with him. Ahead, Jake saw a police car squeal around the corner, lights ablaze. He ran up a lawn, under some trees, and out of the light. He hopped a fence, staggering from the pain in his knee before he loped across the yard. He scaled the fence in back, tearing a sleeve. The searchlight found him again. He heard car doors slamming out in the street and the shouts of men.
Jake kept going, away from his car, giving Sam time to get out and reach the station. He crossed through another yard, past a house whose porch light flashed on, and across another street into the weedy yard of an abandoned church. Behind him, he heard the scream of tires and brakes, even through the heavy thump of the copter blades. He took half a second to take the skull from his coat pocket and drop it into a juniper bush that was next to the corner of the stone church, then kept going. When he hit the next street, a black Suburban raced toward him out of nowhere, its lights going on, blinding him, and making him jump back so that he tripped on the curb and tumbled to the ground.
He clawed at the grass and scrambled to his feet as the truck doors flew open. Feet pounded the pavement behind him. Jake never looked back, but started to run. That’s when something hit him from behind. He felt the air leave his body and saw a flash of light.
59
WHEN JAKE SHOOK FREE from the grogginess, they had stripped off his coat and already had his hands cuffed behind his back. They pulled him to his feet and jostled him toward the state police car, shoving him into the backseat. The trooper slammed the door, then stood talking to a thick-necked man wearing a black windbreaker. He had dark eyes, a concrete jaw, and an iron-gray crew cut. Jake tried to decipher their words. The older man talked the most and the troopers nodded at everything he said.
Out on the lawn adjacent to the one where he’d been taken down, a cluster of neighbors stood talking and every so often one of them would point his way. The helicopter’s absence left the little town strangely quiet. Jake watched the man with the crew cut climb into the black Suburban. The same truck had come out of Ridgewood the other night, warning them to stay away.
Two troopers climbed in and when Jake asked, the driver said they were taking him to the station.
“I want my lawyer,” Jake said.
The cop in the passenger side turned all the way around to smile at him and said, “This ain’t TV.”
“No? It might be,” Jake said.
The troopers clammed up. They actually passed Ridgewood on their way to the station, and Jake swung around to see if the black Suburban that was following them would turn in. When it didn’t, he felt the knot in his stomach tighten.
In low voices, the two young troopers began to speak to each other about the man Jake presumed to be the one with the crew cut in the Suburban.
“Slatten wants to talk with him before we charge him,” the driver said.
The other chuckled and said, “Can we just do that?”
The driver shrugged. “I’m not saying no. You can.”
“What was he? CIA?”
The driver nodded. “And Army before that.”
They pulled into a single-story brick building with a pitched roof that looked more like a modest home than a police station. They led Jake inside and put him in a small white interrogation room, cuffing him to a U-bolt in the metal table that bisected the room. After about ten minutes of Jake hearing the murmur of voices outside the room, the man with the crew cut came in without the cops and closed the door behind him.
Over one arm was Jake’s suit coat. In his hands were the DVD camera and its bag. He set the bag and coat down on the table off to the side, turned the camera over in his hands, and popped it open before setting it down and examining
the contents of the bag. From the side compartment he removed a new, unused disc. He looked at the plastic seal, then tossed it back into the bag. From Jake’s coat pocket, he fished out a smooth round container of skin-tone cover-up that Jake used for makeup in the field. The man popped open the makeup, wrinkled his nose, and tossed it down on the table, where it rattled to a stop.
“I’m Vick Slatten,” he said without offering a hand.
Slatten sat down and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. Under his windbreaker, a black T-shirt was stretched taut over his muscular chest. He wasn’t tall, but he had the air of a man used to having people get out of his way.
“And you’re a reporter,” he said, leaning back. “For American Outrage. A little face makeup?” He angled his chin at the container.
Jake just looked at him.
“I’m head of security at Ridgewood,” he said, sitting forward, his eyes going to the camera bag. He had the angry undercurrent of a man who’d been insulted and had yet to repay the favor.
“And that’s like some kind of sovereign nation, right, Vick?” Jake said.
Slatten’s eyes narrowed.
“Where’s the DVD?” Slatten said.
Jake returned the stare. “Where’s the body?”
Slatten didn’t blink, but Jake saw his pupils coil. Then he smiled and stood up, circling the table.
“Decency,” Slatten said, pausing in his approach. “That’s what this family is about. They have a fortune. They share it. They have time. They give it. And then you people come along.”
Jake didn’t even look at him, but he let his own mouth curl into a smile at the charade.
Slatten’s hand shot out and gripped Jake by the throat. An iron finger probed his neck and lanced a nerve. Jake jerked away involuntarily, clacking the handcuffs against their bolt, the legs of the chair squeaking out from under him as it clattered to the floor.
Slatten brought his face close enough for Jake to see the white stubble on his leathery chin.
