No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

  “So you’ve never met Scott?”

  Bodine glanced at Pete for a fleeting moment before looking down. “I’ve met him.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Bodine shifted in his seat again. The man was so tightly wound, Pete half expected him to explode out of his chair. Or get physically ill.

  “Mr. Bodine?”

  “Last week at Federated’s Marcellus Regional Headquarters over in Washington County. I was walking down the hall and heard some yelling coming from one of the offices. The door was open as I passed, and I saw it was Mr. Springfield—Scott—and one of the local managers having a shouting match.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention this to me when we talked before?”

  “No, I didn’t. I told you. I didn’t know Mr. Springfield—” Bodine swallowed. “I didn’t know Scott and Dale Springfield were related.”

  “Who was the local manager?”

  “Fellow by the name of Wesley Johnson.”

  Pete jotted down the name. “What were they arguing about?”

  “I didn’t catch much of it. I was just passing by, mind you. But Wes is one of the public relations guys and I got the impression he wasn’t too happy with Mr. Springfield.”

  “Scott or Dale?”

  “Scott.” Bodine gave Pete a sickly grin. “Probably both, now that I think about it. Wes was ranting about bad publicity and seemed to be blaming Scott for it. Maybe he was really blaming Scott’s father.”

  And maybe Scott didn’t appreciate having his estranged father’s anti-drilling rhetoric thrown in his face. The bells on the front door interrupted Pete’s thoughts. Voices drifted back to him. Baronick and Kevin.

  “One more question, Mr. Bodine. Do you have any idea where Scott Springfield might be staying?”

  “Federated keeps a suite available at that fancy new hotel next to HQ for visiting executives. I reckon he’s staying there.”

  The voices grew louder as Baronick and Kevin came down the hall.

  Pete stood and extended a hand to Bodine. “Thanks for your time. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Anytime, Chief.”

  Baronick and Kevin appeared in Pete’s doorway. Bodine excused himself and brushed between them on his way out.

  The detective watched him go before turning to Pete. “Anything new?”

  “Yeah.” Pete gave them a quick rundown of the conversation he’d just had. “According to Bodine, Scott Springfield might be staying at the hotel next to Federated’s headquarters in Washington County. I intend to talk to this Wesley Johnson first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, we need to find Scott and keep an eye on him.”

  Baronick appeared to mull over the possible implications. “Yeah. We don’t have enough for an arrest yet, but we don’t want him catching a plane to Texas before we do. I’ll get in touch with the Washington police and enlist their help.”

  “We have another father/son feud brewing too.” Pete told them about Leroy and Jake Moore. “Kevin, I want you to find out all you can about Leroy’s son, especially his current whereabouts.”

  “I’m on it, Chief.”

  Pete glanced at his watch. “Okay, boys, it’s quitting time for me. I’m leaving the township in your capable hands.”

  Baronick feigned shock. “You’re actually going home at a reasonable hour?”

  Pete huffed. “Not quite. I have paperwork.” Plus he wanted them out of his office so he could shut the door and try Zoe’s number again. He knew his earlier call had probably gone to voicemail because of spotty service out there, but he wouldn’t relax until he heard her voice.

  “Of course.” Baronick scoffed. “How silly of me.”

  As the detective turned in the direction of the conference room and Kevin headed toward the bull pen and his desk, Pete’s cell phone rang.

  Still not Zoe.

  “Chief, this is John Nelson from Scenic Hilltop Estates. You asked me to let you know if I saw anything over at my neighbor’s place.”

  The Fort. Pete came forward to the edge of his chair. “Yes?”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s someone over there right now. I could swear I saw a flashlight beam flickering through the fence. Do you want me to go check?”

  Pete leapt to his feet. “No. You stay inside your house. I’m on my way.” He hung up and grabbed his jacket from the peg on his way into the hall. “Kevin. Baronick. Let’s go,” he barked. “Our mystery man at the Fort has come home.”

  Twenty-one

  Zoe lagged behind Yellowhorse and Allison, partly because they were engaged in what seemed to be a private conversation—one which Zoe felt certain would end if she was present—and partly because she kept her eyes on the ground in front of her. They’d veered off the road, and the uneven rocks threatened to trip her.

  Plus she kept imagining rattlesnakes lurking everywhere.

  She hated snakes.

  At least the hike kept her warm. Stupidly, she’d left her jacket in the rental car’s trunk. Her heavy polar fleece vest would have been sufficient except for the constant wind.

  “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?” she called to the pair.

  They stopped and allowed her to catch up.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Yellowhorse did the pointing-with-his-lips thing. Zoe followed the gesture to a white four-door Ford pickup half hidden by a clump of cedars fifty or so yards ahead.

  “Can you make it?” Yellowhorse asked.

  Neither his face nor his voice showed any evidence of sarcasm, but Zoe sensed it was there just the same. “I’m fine.”

  He turned his back to her and continued toward the truck. Over his shoulder, he said, “Rattlesnakes are asleep. They don’t like the cold.”

  She stumbled. Caught herself. How on earth did he know what she’d been thinking?

  They reached the Ford, and Yellowhorse climbed in behind the wheel. Allison opened both of the passenger side doors. She stood at the front one, holding the rear one for Zoe. Allison must have called dibs on shotgun.

  Moments later, they lurched ahead. Even seatbelted, Zoe grabbed for the armrest. The jarring ride she was accustomed to in the patient compartment of the ambulance was smooth compared to this.

  “I hate to keep asking the same question,” she said, “but where are we going?”

  “You want to see that your friend’s son is safe. I’m taking you to him.”

  Allison half turned to Zoe with an eager smile. “I told you Pony Boy would take care of him.”

  Zoe didn’t reply and didn’t return the smile. Allison might trust the Navajo, but Zoe still did not. Here they were in middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing in a truck driven by a man who knew the area and no doubt knew where to hide a body. Like hers. And Allison’s.

  And Logan’s.

  Zoe had no phone. No weapon. And she’d willingly gotten into a strange vehicle.

  If she did manage to survive this, Pete was gonna kill her.

  Zoe had no idea how long they rumbled around out in the middle of No Man’s Land. Occasionally, they encountered hard-packed dirt roads—maybe a patch of pavement—which they would follow for a mile or so before veering off road again. She spotted an oil well here, a grouping of storage tanks there, but they didn’t pass another vehicle and didn’t see another living soul for what seemed like an hour.

  She’d never been more lost in her life. Maybe that was the Navajo’s intention.

  “There,” Yellowhorse said.

  Zoe leaned toward the center of the seat and forward to get a better look through the windshield. “Where?”

  “I see it,” Allison said, her voice excited. She pointed. “There, Aunt Zoe.”

  She squinted in the direction Allison had indicated. In the distance, she made out a man-made boxy shape amo
ng the graceful curves of nature. A house trailer. Other than the sharp lines, it blended in with its surroundings—brown and beige.

  The closer they got, the worse the place looked. It appeared to be abandoned, although how someone hauled a mobile home out here only to dump it baffled Zoe. Several of the windows had been replaced by plywood. No. Cardboard. Tree branches covered the roof. Camouflage? Or simply keeping the roof from blowing away in the constant wind? The whole rickety structure listed noticeably.

  As they approached and slowed, a door on the single-wide swung open. A figure stepped out—a man, tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a full beard. He looked familiar. And not familiar at the same time.

  Allison squealed in delight. “Logan!”

  Logan?

  Yellowhorse braked, raising a cloud of dust that rolled away on the breeze. Allison had her door open and bolted toward her brother even before the truck came to a complete halt. Zoe fumbled to unlatch the seatbelt and tumbled out behind her.

  Logan scooped up his younger sister in a sobbing hug. Zoe jogged up to the pair but stopped short, not wanting to interrupt. She studied the boy. No. Not boy. Man. She hadn’t seen him in nearly six months. He’d left Vance Township a gangly seventeen-year-old wearing oversized t-shirts that hung on his thin shoulders and baggy jeans. This young man might wear the same size t-shirts, but muscles filled out the excess. His hips were just as narrow, but his jeans were at least three sizes smaller and no longer threatened to reveal his underwear.

  He looked up and spotted her. Still holding Allison in one arm, he extended the other toward Zoe. She took the final few steps to him and enveloped both teens in an embrace.

  “Thank God,” she whispered. “We were afraid you were…” She couldn’t say the word.

  “I almost was.” Logan released both Zoe and Allison, but kept a hand on each of them as if afraid they might run off. “It’s so good to see you both. But—” He looked over their heads toward Yellowhorse. “Is it safe for them to be here?”

  For a fleeting moment, Zoe had forgotten about the Navajo.

  “We were careful,” he said. “But no, of course it isn’t safe.”

  She had seen Logan devastated following the loss of his father and when his sister had been brutalized, but the look in his eyes as he scanned the surroundings was like nothing she’d witnessed before. The kid was terrified. And something more. He was haunted.

  Yellowhorse approached the trio. “Let’s go inside.”

  Pete turned off his headlights once he rolled into Scenic Hilltop Estates. Baronick followed suit in his unmarked county vehicle. Kevin brought up the rear in the Vance Township Police cruiser. None of them used lights or sirens.

  Pete and Baronick parked on the curb, flanking the Fort’s driveway. Kevin followed orders and maneuvered his car to block the housing plan’s entrance. Pete didn’t want to spook this guy. If he took off on foot, there were hundreds of acres of farmland and woods surrounding them in which to get lost.

  Pete and Baronick stepped from their vehicles into the crisp night air and eased toward the gate. Pete flicked on his flashlight. The padlock was still in place, but the clasp had been pried from the wood leaving splinters smudged with deep red.

  “Looks like we have a B and E,” Baronick said quietly, feigning concern.

  “I don’t know.” Pete sarcastically matched the detective’s worried tone. Both knew, one way or the other, they were going in. But there were certain legalities to consider. “Since the homeowner didn’t report anything, a good defense attorney could claim the lock was simply broken. Any evidence we stumble across would be thrown out as inadmissible.”

  Baronick pointed. “There’s blood. We should check to make sure the homeowner isn’t seriously injured. He might need medical help, but he’s unable to call 911.”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s go already.” He slipped through the gate, Baronick on his heels. The driveway stood empty. Either the guy’s car was inside the garage or he’d come in on foot.

  Pete signaled for the detective to take the rear of the house while he headed to the front door.

  But Baronick caught his arm. “We should wait for backup,” he whispered.

  They’d had this discussion before. “Do you want to be the one to tell Fratini we let a drug dealer get away while we sat on our hands?”

  Baronick glared at Pete and grunted before turning and striding toward the rear of the house.

  Pete ducked under the front window, pausing to peek inside. The house was dark. No signs of movement. He positioned himself next to the door and waited, giving Baronick time to get in place.

  Then Pete pounded on the glass. “Police. Open the door.”

  From inside came the unmistakable sounds of footsteps—heading the other way. Pete launched from the small porch. Pounded back down the sidewalk. Across the driveway. Toward the backyard and the sound of a crash, a thud, and an oomph.

  He clicked on his flashlight as he rounded the corner. Baronick was on the ground, wrestling in the snow with an assailant wearing black. “Stop it,” the detective shouted. “Police.”

  Before Pete reached them, their intruder went limp, unmoving except for the sobs wracking his body. A real tough guy.

  Muttering, Baronick climbed to his feet, hoisting his now-submissive catch with him. The detective grabbed the guy’s hoodie and tugged it off his head. Pete aimed the flashlight beam into the tear-streaked face of young A.J. Vincenti.

  A.J. slumped in his chair in the Vance Township interrogation room and stared at his hands folded on the table in front of him. He’d refused the offer of water or a soft drink. And in spite of having been Mirandized, he’d waived his rights to a lawyer.

  Someone had left a single sheet of lined paper from a legal pad on the table. Pete claimed it and clicked his pen. “How old are you, A.J.?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Old enough to know better,” Baronick grumbled from his usual post, leaning against the wall next to the door.

  The kid didn’t look up, but appeared ready to burst into tears again. “I said I’m sorry.”

  Pete let Baronick own the role of bad cop. He’d take good cop. For now. “What are you sorry for, son?”

  A.J. sunk lower in the chair. “For knocking him down. I didn’t know he was there.”

  “Anything else?”

  The kid’s eyes darted side to side, but he didn’t speak.

  “Where have you been the last few days?” Pete asked, keeping his voice low, concerned.

  “At my dad’s fishing camp in Fayette County.”

  “Since when?”

  A.J. sniffed. Brushed a hand beneath his nose. “Yesterday. Right after…”

  When the kid didn’t elaborate, Pete asked, “After what?”

  “After I found Nick Greenslate.”

  “After you killed him, you mean,” Baronick said. Bad cop.

  A.J. spun to face the detective. “I didn’t kill him. He was already dead when I got there.”

  “All right.” Pete draped his left arm over the back of his chair while drawing lazy doodles on the paper. “Start at the beginning. Why did you go to the house in Dillard?”

  The junior Vincenti returned to his previous anxious posture. “I wanted to find Greenslate. I knew my sister used to see him. Used to get heroin from him. I wanted to talk to him.” A.J. winced. Shook his head. “No. That’s not true. I wanted to pound the shit out of him. If she hadn’t gotten the stuff from him, I figured he’d know who had supplied her.”

  “How did you know he’d be there?”

  “I asked around. People I knew from my sister. Guys I wouldn’t usually give the time of day.”

  Pete shot a glance at Baronick and caught the gleam in the detective’s eye. He and his drug task force might have just found an information mother lode. “So you went there Tu
esday night?”

  “No. Yesterday afternoon. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. I didn’t think anything of it, figuring he probably did most of his business at night. I knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I checked, and it wasn’t locked. So I went in.” The kid swallowed. Hard. “And that’s when I found him.”

  “Did you check to see if he was still alive?”

  He shuddered. “Hell no. He looked—dead. I wasn’t gonna touch him. I booked it outta there and called 911.”

  “Why’d you run?” Baronick asked.

  “I was scared. My sister’s dead. Greenslate was dead. I thought maybe someone might be in another room of the house and saw me. I just wanted to lay low for a while. To think.”

  “But you came back.”

  Pete added a rough sketch of the Fort to his doodles. “Why’d you go to the house on the hill this evening?”

  “I got antsy at the camp. I couldn’t get a cell signal and we don’t have any internet service down there. So I came back and started asking more questions. I finally found someone who told me about the house with the fence.”

  “What about it?”

  A.J. lifted his gaze from his clasped hands to meet Pete’s eyes. “Shannon had started seeing a guy. Someone named Wolf Man. He’s the one who’s been dealing both heroin and meth. He’s the one who gave her the stuff that killed her. And Greenslate too, I’d bet. This Wolf Man dude…he’s been living up there at that house. I went there…” He took a breath. “I went there to kill him.” His face contorted into a roiling mix of anger, guilt, and anguish.

  “What did you find when you got there?” Pete asked.

  “Nothing.” A.J. swiped at his nose again. “Didn’t look like anyone’s been there in days. There were a few old moldy pizza boxes and some empty beer and pop cans. That’s all.”

  The kid’s story matched the neighbor’s. Pete set the pen down and came forward in his chair. “A.J., I believe you. But there’s one more thing you can help us with. This Wolf Man character. What’s his real name?”