The Truth Lies Here

by Lindsey Klingele

  “I don’t know. I believe it enough to check it out, at least.”

  Dex’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “Who’s the Mulder now?”

  I frowned. “Let’s not get carried away. First things first.” I wanted to brush off Dex’s comment, but inside I was fighting back a small wave of doubt. Was I taking a huge risk on a wild theory? Was I turning a perfectly ordinary bear into a Bigfoot? I tried taking a calming breath.

  “So . . . if we find where these agents are staying, you’re going to, what, sneak in?” Dex asked. “Like bust open a lock with a hairpin and start going through their files by flashlight—”

  “A hairpin?”

  “Yeah. And also you should be wearing a trench coat—”

  “Dex,” I said.

  “And a fedora.”

  “Dex. Stop.” I tried to sound irritated, but honestly, I was glad. It was nice to know that Dex was still Dex—still getting excited about the most ridiculous scenario. That meant I could go straight back into the role of realist. Where I was most comfortable.

  “This isn’t some story,” I said. I felt calmer just saying the words. “Once we find where they’re staying, we’ll make a real plan.”

  “A ‘real’ plan can still have a trench coat,” Dex muttered.

  We continued to discuss—and argue about—different possibilities as we drove around and around town, circling the main roads, cruising through streets lined with old wooden and brick houses, going down country lanes bordered by a dark line of woods on either side. We talked about the plant, Micah’s dad, my missing hours. It was on our seventh trip back up Main Street, around 3:00 p.m., that we finally saw the black car. It was pulled up outside the hardware store. The side and back windows were darkened, but I could see through the windshield that the car was empty.

  “Duck!” Dex said, dropping down low in the driver’s seat.

  “Dex! You’re still driving!”

  Dex’s car slowed to a near stop right in the middle of Main Street.

  “Right, right,” he said, straightening up enough to pull his car over to the side of the road, right across the street from the hardware store. Then he immediately slid back down again.

  “Genius,” I said. “Now if anyone looks over at us, they’ll think your car just parked itself.”

  Dex didn’t laugh. I sighed and slid down in the passenger seat until I could just make out the windows of the hardware store if I tilted my head up. It was a few minutes before we saw one of the FBI agents—Shanahan, still in the yellow tie—walking out of the store. A white plastic bag, weighed down by something small and heavy, swung from his hand. Dex and I watched as he smoothly lowered himself into the black car, started it, and did a three-point turn heading back up Main Street and out of town.

  “Follow him?” Dex whispered, already shifting his car from park to drive.

  I nodded silently, but Dex was already easing down the road, staying a few car lengths behind the agent. We didn’t speak, and the car was filled only with the heavy sounds of our breathing. Dex’s hand shook as he moved the wheel to follow the black car off Main Street and onto Morning Glory Drive, then over to County Road 7. We were headed out of town. The car ahead of us made smooth turns, staying a consistent three miles above the speed limit. As we drove down the country road, I was struck by how empty it was; few cars came from the other direction, and none were behind us.

  The black car pulled ahead, almost imperceptibly, as if the driver had tapped lightly on the gas. Dex did the same. A pair of sunglasses filled the frame of the black car’s side-view mirror. He was watching us.

  “Wait,” I hissed. “Turn here. Slowly.”

  I motioned to a small dirt road that cut through a neighboring field.

  “What?” Dex asked in a whisper, even though there was no way the agent in the other car could hear us.

  “It’s too isolated out here. He’ll know we’re following him, if he doesn’t already. Turn.”

  Dex tightened his grip on the wheel and breathed in heavily through his nostrils, as if his very body was fighting what he was about to do. But he did it anyway—he turned onto the dirt road, sending a small brown cloud up and over the tall grasses of the field.

  “Now we’ll never find him,” Dex said as the car jerked over the bumpy road.

  “You honestly think I don’t have a backup plan?” I smiled. “Keep driving.”

  The smell of maple sugar was overwhelming. The day was getting so hot that just on the two-minute walk from Sweet Street to the hardware store, the candies were already starting to slowly melt and clump together.

  I tossed a quick nod at Dex, who was once again waiting in the car across the street, before I walked into Hector’s store with the bag of maple candy held before me like an offering.

  “PENNY!” Hector boomed. He was standing in his regular spot behind the counter, though instead of his usual U of M T-shirt he was wearing a button-down shirt with light sweat marks around the armpits—the same one he’d worn to the memorial.

  I forced myself to smile in a way I hoped looked innocent and casual.

  “Hey, Hector. I remembered you saying how much you liked Cindy’s maple candy. I couldn’t find the recipe, but I figured, next best thing. . . .”

  His eyes grew comically large as I placed the bag in front of him on the counter. “Well, isn’t that just the nicest . . .” Hector shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the bag of candy on the counter was actually for him. For a moment, I felt a twist of guilt in my gut—something that was becoming distressingly familiar—but in the next moment Hector sniffed loudly and reached for the bag with a grin.

  “Thanks, Penny.”

  I shrugged. “It was nothing. Especially on a day like today.”

  Hector’s smile melted off his face. He looked down, and for a moment I wondered if I miscalculated, if there were some things that were just too hard for anyone to gossip about. But then Hector sighed a familiar, put-upon sigh and leaned forward, elbows on the counter.

  “I tell you, little Hardjoy, I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “No, I’m telling you. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and that . . . that was the saddest fucking—sorry, excuse my language—the saddest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Those poor parents. Just can’t imagine, can’t imagine . . .”

  “At least they knew everyone in town was there, showing support.”

  “Of course,” Hector boomed. “It affects the whole town, you know, something like that. Lot of businesses even closed down today, out of respect. I was closed this morning, and I even considered staying closed, because, you know, it seemed like the right thing to do. But then I was telling Jimmy . . .”

  I nodded like I knew who Jimmy was.

  “. . . I told him, I got orders to fill this afternoon. And it’s not like I’m disrespecting those poor kids. I mean, I used to go to every single one of Bryan’s home games. And some away games, too, if it wasn’t raining. And I paid him fifteen cents more than minimum wage. So I don’t think he’d mind much that I opened the store this afternoon.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t.”

  For all his bluster, Hector looked relieved that I agreed with him.

  “I think it makes sense to open the store,” I continued, “especially with the town so crowded right now.”

  “Oh, you’re telling me,” Hector said, setting off on this new conversational track with as much zeal as if he’d been the one to bring it up. “Town hasn’t been this busy in years, not since . . . well, they always seem to come when there’s bad news, is all. . . .”

  Hector trailed off and popped a piece of maple candy in his mouth. He pushed the bag over to me.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual and taking one of the candies for myself. “I saw some of those journalists were even at the memorial service today.”

  “Vultures,” Hector mumbled. A small bit of candy shot from his mouth and over t
he counter, landing on my shoe. I pretended not to notice.

  “Even those FBI guys were there.”

  “I saw ’em. They’ve been all around. One of ’em even came in here just today.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. Just now. Weird guy, he was. Barely spoke two words. I asked him how he was liking Bone Lake, and he says, ‘It’s hot.’ Just ‘It’s hot.’ I ask him where he’s from that it’s any cooler, and he doesn’t say. Weird guy, I’m telling you.”

  “I wonder where they’re all even staying? Not like there’re a lot of hotels nearby.”

  Hector shrugged, reached for another candy. “Don’t know about that. But I bet they’re using some kind of storage unit near here.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. So the weird guy comes in, and all he buys is an industrial lock. He says he wants the biggest kind I got, so I tell him the biggest one I got is a Master padlock, like for a storage facility door, and he goes, ‘That’s just what I need.’ He talks just like that, only using a few words at a time. Real odd, I’m telling you. Don’t know what he needs a Master padlock for, but I can’t imagine it’s for a dinky closet safe at the Motel 6, you know?”

  “Weird,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Weird’s the word for it. But business is business. That’s what I’m always saying. Even on a day like today, business is business.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sensing the conversation was about to detour once again. “Well, I better get going before I eat all your maple candy.”

  Hector waved his hand like there was nothing to be worried about. “Thanks again, Penny. And stay safe out there, okay? Scary times.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “you’re right about that.”

  It was hard to sit still as Dex drove to the only storage facility in a twenty-mile radius: the Store-4-U off of M-66. My fingertips tapped out a quick pattern against my knee, and I couldn’t keep my feet from bouncing against the floorboards. A rush of adrenaline still pumped through me even twenty minutes after I’d gotten the info out of Hector. This was what journalism was about, when it was done right—when you asked just the right question at just the right time and got the answer someone else might not have been able to get. This, I loved.

  “You need me to pull over or something?” Dex asked, motioning to my bouncing knee.

  I forced my limbs to be still. “I’m fine. Just hope we’re actually right about this.”

  “Why else would someone buy a giant storage-unit padlock if not to use it?”

  I pressed my lips together, considering. “Maybe the lock’s for his own personal use. Or maybe he’s going to put it on a shed, or a garage, or something.”

  “What, like they rented a house? You think the FBI uses Airbnb?”

  I shrugged. “You never know.”

  Dex laughed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing, just . . . You’re so used to arguing with me I think you forgot this whole storage locker thing was your idea.”

  I bristled. “I’m just testing for holes in the theory.”

  “Sure, sure. What good’s a theory without some holes?” Dex smiled. “Anyway, there’s no harm in at least checking it out, right?”

  “Right.”

  A long, tan building rose up into view as we crested a hill, and I could just barely make out the Store-4-U sign sitting on two metal posts at the edge of a parking lot. As Dex slowed the car, my pulse sped up.

  The storage facility was large, but the bulk of it faced the roadway. Hundreds of white doors were set into the low building, which backed up into the woods. Dex brought the car down to twenty miles per hour as we passed by the building. I scanned the parking lot for any sign of a sleek, black car. I saw dusty pickups, small hatchbacks, and even a few minivans parked outside of the various doors, but nothing that looked like what the FBI agents drove.

  I sighed in disappointment, just about to lean my head against the passenger seat and tell Dex to turn around, when I saw a flash of red tucked inside the large opening of the last storage unit. I gripped the edge of my seat, twisting all the way around to try to get a better view as we went past the unit, no longer caring who might see me.

  “What is it?” Dex asked, scanning the building in the rearview mirror. He swerved a bit on the road, then tightened his grip on the wheel and kept his eyes forward.

  “Be cool,” I said, my voice low. “Drive normal.”

  I turned back around in my seat, willing my heart to stop jackhammering inside my chest.

  “I was trying to drive normal.”

  “Okay, see that stand of trees off the road up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pull off the road and park behind them. Pull as far off the road as you can.”

  “How is that normal?”

  “Dex—”

  “Okay, okay, got it.”

  Dex checked to make sure no one was behind him, then pumped the brakes and pulled his car off the right-hand side of the road, behind a thick stand of pine trees. As soon as he turned the engine off, he turned to look at me, expectant.

  “Well? What are we doing? Did you see something back there?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, taking a breath as I tried to figure out what to do next. “I saw something in the big unit at the end.”

  “Well? What was it?” Dex’s whole body twisted in his seat to face me.

  “My dad’s truck.”

  Twenty-Eight

  STEALTH DIDN’T EXACTLY come naturally to Dex.

  As we crossed the road and moved through the thick patch of trees leading up to the storage facility, Dex’s long body managed to crash into every branch he passed.

  “Ow,” he said, after he pushed a pine bough roughly out of the way only for it to double back and smack him in the face.

  “Shh,” I responded. I’d never snuck up on a government official before, and I certainly didn’t want to get caught doing it now—at least, not before I got a good look at my dad’s truck.

  “Sorry,” Dex loudly whispered back, picking his way over a long-dead log that stretched across our makeshift path. “But are you sure this is the best idea?”

  “No,” I whispered back.

  Eventually, I saw glimpses of the storage facility through the trees. The biggest units were on the far ends. They were square in shape, stretching out past the other, smaller storage units so the whole building looked like a U that faced the woods. The biggest units had larger doors and even small windows set into their sides. As Dex and I moved closer, I got lower and lower to the ground. I’d changed into a dark T-shirt and jeans after the memorial, and I was hoping my clothes wouldn’t stand out behind the shrubs.

  “Well?” Dex asked as we finally neared the front of the building. “Where is it?”

  I shook my head. Every single door on every single storage container was shut. The largest unit, nearest to us, was locked up tight with an industrial-size padlock. I could see the Master Lock logo from my spot near the trees.

  “That unit was open a few minutes ago. I saw the truck in there; I know I did. Let’s get closer.”

  Dex swallowed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea—”

  “Stop saying that,” I replied. “And yes, I’m sure. If the storage unit was open, that means someone was here, and they just left. Which means it’s the best time for us to check it out before anyone comes back.”

  “Okay, but . . . how?”

  “There.” I pointed up to the tiny, rectangular window in the side of the unit I was sure housed my dad’s truck.

  “You can’t be serious,” Dex said. “How would we even get up there?”

  Ten minutes later, we’d hauled the fallen log out of the woods and propped it up against the side of the storage unit. The log was clearly rotted through, the damp wood falling off in chunks where it met the corrugated metal side of the building. Dark pieces of bark stuck to my hands even after I tried to brush them off on my jeans.

  “Okay, now I know
this isn’t a good idea,” Dex said. He had his hands on his hips, elbows out, and he stared up at the top of the log with his eyebrows raised. Looking at him in that stance, I was struck again by how he looked both familiar and not at the same time. With his knobby elbows sticking out like that, I was reminded of the neighbor kid who used to flap his arms when he ran during tag. But those elbows were also connected to long arms with outlines of muscle just under the skin that seemed entirely foreign, but oddly hard to tear my eyes from. . . .

  I shook my head back and forth once, quickly. “Just think of it like the ladder to the tree house,” I said, keeping my eyes on the log and off Dex.

  “Right, sure. Just like a ladder. That has no rungs. And is full of worms.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dex took one last deep breath and lifted his leg, putting his foot tentatively on the bottom slope of the log. He leaned against it, and the log held. For two seconds. Then it bent under his weight, and I lunged forward to catch him. But the bending stopped, and Dex was still there, one foot off the ground. He exhaled and started slowly climbing. When he got to the bottom of the window, he stopped and peered inside.

  I could tell right away, just by how his shoulders stiffened, that I was right.

  “It’s in there, Penny,” he whispered. “Ike’s truck.”

  “We have to get inside.”

  Dex pushed and pressed against the window, but it held firm.

  “Hold on,” I said, searching the ground near my feet. Grass, weeds, pebbles—there. A brown rock the size of a cantaloupe, half-buried in the ground. I pulled against it with my fingers. Behind me, I heard the muted groan of rotted wood collapsing in on itself.

  “I don’t think it’s gonna hold much longer. . . .” Dex called out.

  I finally wrenched the rock free, glad to feel the solid weight of it in my hands.

  “Move your head to the right,” I said.

  “What?” Dex looked at the rock in my hands, and immediately turned white. “Oh God.” But he still ducked right, freeing one arm to protect the back of his neck. The log creaked again.

  I pulled my arm back and threw as hard as I could. The rock didn’t hit the center of the window like I’d hoped, but it did catch the lower left corner. Instead of shattering the whole square of glass, it had gone almost cleanly through, leaving a cantaloupe-size hole framed with jagged edges that shone in the sunlight.