by Vivian Barz
Milton tipped the wheelbarrow and dumped Eric onto the ground like a load of dirt. As he fell, he noticed a hatch—a wooden trapdoor—about twenty feet away. It seemed to lead straight underground into some type of cellar. What was down there—torture chamber? Canned peaches? No telling with this guy.
Milton let out a long exhale. “I’m afraid I’m faced with a quandary, Mr. Evans. Killing adults isn’t my style. It disrupts nature’s cycle, and adults come with certain complications. But you strike me as the sort of chap who probably doesn’t have too many people who might come looking for him—am I right? I notice you’ve got no wedding ring, and you told me the last time you were here that you don’t have kids.”
Eric was shaking all over. “Pleaaaassse . . .”
“I’m not trying to pay you any disrespect, son, but I’ve got to look out for myself. You should’ve just left well enough alone.” Milton clicked his tongue. “Life was much simpler when people minded their business.”
How long until he was dead—another minute? Two?
Milton rapped Eric’s skull with his gnarled old-man knuckles. “Best stop that bawling so you can go out with some dignity. Don’t want to leave this world a crybaby, do ya?” Milton gestured toward the Deepfreeze that sat near the hatch. “If you were thirty years younger and two feet shorter, you’d meet your end in there. It’s about the purest way to go, I think.”
“Nooooooo!” Not that way , Eric thought, virtually insane with panic. Anything but that. He tried to slither toward the door, making it about four inches before collapsing with exhaustion.
Milton shook his head at him pityingly and then crossed the barn. He used his key ring once more, this time to open a tall pine cabinet. He seized a very large shotgun and returned. Eric’s sobs grew to hysterical proportions. Out of all the ways he’d ever envisioned dying, at the hands of a child murderer in a reeking barn would have been dead last.
Milton loaded the shotgun. “I’m going to do you in the head. It’ll be quicker that way.”
Eric moaned.
Milton raised the shotgun and aimed it at Eric’s skull. “If you care to know, I’m going to bury you out back under my orange tree. After the law clears out, I mean. Until then, you’ll have Gerald to keep you company. If you have any last words—”
Milton’s back went ramrod straight.
“Noooo . . .”
“Quiet now!” Milton hissed, cocking his head to listen.
“Pleasssssse . . . nooooooo.”
Milton thumped Eric’s skull with the butt of the shotgun. “I said shush !” He ran to the door, cracked it, peeked out. He cursed as he sprinted back to Eric.
Milton cast the shotgun aside and seized Eric by the wrists, pulling him toward the hatch. Out came the key ring again as he unlocked yet another padlock. He threw the door open, and Eric let out a surprised yelp. Beneath him was a dirt chasm about fifteen feet deep.
So was Lenny Lincoln, looking up at them.
“Help meeeee,” Eric begged the boy, but Lenny had already begun to dissolve.
Milton dumped Eric in, and he landed face first in a puff of brown powder. He lifted his head weakly, eyes watering and broken nose stinging, thick warmth flooding over his split lip.
Eric saw two small figures huddled in the corner, a boy and a girl. Unlike Lenny, these children were real . The boy blinked at him lazily, seeing him but not really comprehending. Drugged.
The little girl did not stir.
Milton slammed the trapdoor closed, immersing them in darkness.
CHAPTER 33
“We’re not staying longer than fifteen minutes,” Ed told Susan as they pulled up in front of Milton Lincoln’s place. “You ask your questions, and we’ll go from there.”
Susan wasn’t positive, but she thought Ed sounded slightly more open to her theory about the horse, but maybe it was only the stout caffeine buzz he had going. The jumbo-size caramel macchiato he’d slurped down on the way over seemed to have improved his mood significantly. Ed liked to pretend otherwise, but he loved fancy coffee drinks.
Susan nodded. “Sure, but I’ll still need to work into it.”
They got out of the car, and Ed turned to her so that she could see his no-nonsense frown. “Guess you’d better talk fast, then.”
“I can’t just blurt it out, Ed.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Milton came out on the porch before they’d even mounted the stairs. He smiled down at the two officers pleasantly.
“You must be psychic,” Susan said and then immediately regretted it, given how her last visit to Milton’s had panned out. She straightened. “Hello again, Mr. Lincoln.”
“No, I’m not psychic,” Milton said. “Living out here, you can see a car coming a mile down the road, ’specially after it gets dark.”
Ed and Susan nodded curtly as they mounted the stairs. When they reached the top, Milton reached out and surprised Susan by giving Ed’s hand a hearty shake. “Golly, Ed, it’s been . . .” Milton scratched his forehead with dirty fingers, and Susan noted that he was sweating quite a bit. What had he been doing? “Well, I don’t know how long. Long. ”
Ed? This was something Susan hadn’t expected. The way the chief had been talking, it was like he could hardly recall ever meeting Milton. Sometimes, though, that was how it went, being a cop in a small town. Citizens knew you even if you didn’t know them, sort of like being an underpaid celebrity.
“I think it was at the state fair a couple years back,” Ed commented. “You whacked that carny’s strength machine so hard he thought you’d cheated.”
“Yep.” Milton nodded. “I ’member that. Had to fight ’im for my prize.”
The two men looked like they were sharing a private joke or . . . something else. Susan was beginning to feel like a child who’d been dragged along with her father to Take Our Daughter to Work Day. Then again, Ed was no dummy. Maybe his good old boy banter was his way of charming their way inside. They had no official cause to be there and no warrant, so Milton could refuse them entry if he so desired.
Ed said, “Listen, Milton, I sure as hell hate to bother you, but I’m wondering if we might come in for a minute and ask you a couple questions.”
Milton raised his eyebrows. “Questions? About what?”
Ed shuffled, offering Milton a strained smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard about all the awful business that’s been going on next door.”
“Oh, yup, sure have,” Milton said. “Had the FBI already come talk to me, and your friend here too.” He shot Susan a disdainful glance.
Susan studied Milton’s face with a frown. His conduct was downright peculiar. She’d been on a lot of house calls. Nobody was ever this tranquil when two officers showed up unannounced. Tranquil yet sweating bullets.
Something wasn’t right.
Ed said, “That’s kind of why we’re here. You see, Susan is fairly new around the station, and she hasn’t had too much experience going door-to-door, as you might have guessed.” He rolled his eyes—Can you believe this silly rookie?
Milton guffawed, and Susan had to remind herself that this was all a part of Ed’s ploy to get them inside, though she wished he’d shared his plan with her before they’d arrived. She hadn’t been considered a rookie by anyone in quite some time, and she’d gone on more than her fair share of house calls.
“We’re tying things up down at the station, so we’re making the rounds with final questions,” Ed explained.
“Tying things up?” Milton asked. “This mean you’ve caught your guy?”
Ed leaned forward and winked. “This isn’t exactly public record, but the FBI are closing in on Gerald. It’s only a matter of time.”
He’s establishing trust , Susan thought. I’ll be damned. The old guy has still got some tricks left in him yet.
“Is that right? Well, I do hope they catch him.”
“Anyway, we won’t take up much of your time . . .”
Milton nodded once and opened the door f
or them.
“Where’d your coffee table go?” Susan blurted as they stepped into the living room. She gestured toward the empty spot in front of the sofa. “You had one right there, didn’t you?”
Milton did not seem to appreciate her nosiness. “Took it out back to give it a good polishing. Didn’t want to stain the rug.”
“Oh.” Susan was careful not to let her face reveal what she’d seen peeking out from underneath the sofa: a splinter of varnished wood about six inches long. Milton was lying about the table. But why?
“Can I offer you some tea?” Milton asked. “All I got’s green.”
“No, thank you,” Susan said, eager to begin her questioning. “We just filled up on cof—”
“Sure, I’ll take some tea,” Ed said, and Susan looked over at him, perplexed. What happened to just fifteen minutes?
Milton went into the kitchen, and Susan sat down next to Ed. She kicked out the shard of wood for him to see and then kicked it back under the sofa. Ed frowned, not quite understanding what she was getting at. He shook his head and shrugged. So what?
Susan got to her feet and called toward the kitchen, “Mr. Lincoln? I’m wondering if I might use your bathroom?”
Milton poked his head out from the doorway and furnished her another displeased scowl. “Oh, you really don’t want to use it—it’s a mess, I’m afraid. I’d be embarrassed.”
Susan doubted this very much. Like the exterior, the inside of the house was spotless, and she was certain the obsessive cleanliness would extend to the bathroom. She patted her tummy and made a pained face. “I honestly don’t mind. The coffee on the way over . . . guess it hasn’t sat right with me—all that acid. I really need to . . .” She bit her lip.
Milton pursed his lips. Can’t really argue with a person about to soil her pants. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”
Susan made her way to the bathroom. Once she was inside, she locked the door, tiptoed to the window, and drew the curtains.
Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp as she gazed out on the backyard.
Eric’s car.
It was positively his because of the faded Swindled 5 sticker on the back window. Heart thudding, she cleared her throat to cover the noise she made while prying up the window. She froze for an instant when it screeched. Susan crossed the bathroom and pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath as she listened. Milton and Ed were now talking out in the living room. The conversation even sounded a little heated, which was perfect.
There was no screen, which saved her some time, but the fit through the window would be tight. Susan removed her belt, which held her gun, pepper spray, baton, and flashlight, and tossed it onto the ground below. She then wiggled out, knees popping as she landed the six-foot drop, and clicked her belt back on over her hips.
Susan sprinted toward the only other source of light on the property outside of the house, the barn. The reek of decomposition enveloped her as she neared its doors, swinging ajar in the chilly evening breeze. On some level, she knew that a body took days before it reached this stage of pungency, but still she couldn’t help thinking: Please, please don’t let it be Eric .
Following the stench, she entered the barn, gun drawn, unaware of the panicked huh-huh-huh sounds she was making. She saw a piece of machinery about the size of a small elephant—some type of miniaturized backhoe—and her finger hovered near the gun’s trigger until she cleared it.
At the far end of the barn, she found a blue tarp spread out over a mound of loose hay. She said a silent prayer and toed the tarp aside, discovering the body of Gerald Nichol. He was badly decomposed, but she recognized him immediately, having seen his photo in her police files. She holstered her gun and pulled her walkie-talkie from her belt with shaking hands, her intent to request backup.
She paused to reconsider. If Ed had left his walkie on, her transmission would broadcast. If Milton had any kind of physical advantage over Ed back in the living room, he could seriously hurt or even kill him before Ed even knew what was happening. Ed certainly wasn’t a rookie, but he seemed to have a history with Milton, so his guard might be down.
That was a big might to chance.
How long had she been gone? Four, five minutes? They might be wondering—
Over here!
Susan spun around, hideously aware that she was brandishing a walkie-talkie instead of her firearm. She dropped the walkie and yanked her gun up from her hip.
“Police!” she hollered. “Who’s there?”
She was alone.
But she had heard someone . . . hadn’t she? A child’s voice.
She saw something, though, a large wooden hatch. She’d practically stepped right on top of it earlier but had been too focused on the stench to notice. She pulled her flashlight from her belt (this time, she kept her gun out) and peered down through the slats in the door. Her head snapped back in alarm.
Eric was sprawled on the ground below, his breathing shallow, hair matted against the side of his bloodied face. He kicked an arm and a leg out in a feeble attempt to sit up.
“Eric! Are you hurt?”
He slowly reached up toward her, groaning. “Kiiii . . . help . . .”
“Eric, oh my God!” Susan banged on the door with the flashlight. “Eric! Answer me!”
“In here . . . kids.”
“What?” Susan got down on her stomach and angled the flashlight so that she could squint through the thin slats. “Oh my God!” Her mind reeled frantically, playing catch-up to process the horrifying information she was being inundated with: corpse in hay, Eric mangled, kids in dirt.
“Help . . . us.”
Adrenaline surging, Susan didn’t stop to think. She holstered her gun and chucked the flashlight down at her side, her breath catching in her throat. She yanked and yanked at the lock, but it held. She clenched her fists in frustration, contemplating just shooting the damn thing to smithereens.
But this wasn’t some old western. She could seriously injure Eric and the kids, and she also had Ed and Milton back in the house to consider. Gunfire resonated. Surely, they’d hear.
Eric and the kids were in bad shape. The little girl almost looked like . . .
She shook her head. She didn’t even want to think it.
Susan stepped into high gear. She wheeled around, eyes frantically scanning the shed. She believed there was a crowbar in the cruiser, but she didn’t want to take time to search for it. “I’m going to find something to bust off the lock. You guys hold tight!” she called down and then thought: Where else would they go?
She saw what she needed tacked up on a pegboard, a sturdy little hand trowel with a fat wooden handle, its head sharp and diamond shaped. If she could get it wedged just right, she might be able to splinter the wood and pry the whole thing off completely, latch and lock.
She pulled it from the wall and got to work.
Susan pried at the metal, sweating from tension, murmuring, “Please-please-please. Give. Come on, you bitch! Give, God dammit!” Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears, and she was breathing heavily.
The light above Susan blotted out for only an instant, but it was enough to shift the shadows around her. She spun around. Milton was standing right behind her, holding a pitchfork at shoulder height. She let out a surprised shriek and struggled to get to her feet. Had she not been posed so awkwardly on her hands and knees, she might have made it. She lost her balance instead, tumbling on her side and cracking her ribs hard against the hatch.
She dropped the trowel, fumbling for her gun, but her hands were slick with sweat and shaking and . . .
This is it , she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. I’m dead.
Bang!
Clunk!
It all happened so fast.
Milton was still standing above Susan when she opened her eyes, but he’d released the pitchfork. He groped at his chest and stumbled forward, his back arched in an ugly exhibition of agony. He nearly trampled Susan before he dropped face forward onto
the ground.
Reflexively, Susan seized her gun, though she could see Milton no longer posed a threat because of the large bleeding hole in his back. Behind him in the doorway stood Ed. He was shaky on his feet, gun in one hand and the other pressed against the gushing laceration on his forehead.
Milton raised his head, groaning, as he reached out toward Susan. He had whimpered a long string of words, but she managed to catch the tail end. “About the dead woman.”
“Freeze, asshole!” she shouted, keeping the gun trained on him.
“Ask Ed . . . about Marta. He was there—”
Bang!
Susan screamed so hard and loud that she felt it clear down in her pelvis. Ears ringing, she gaped up at Ed uncomprehendingly, smoke rising from the barrel of his gun. “You shot him in the head,” she said, dumbstruck.
“Say to you!” Ed was yelling. “What did he say?”
Susan opened her mouth and moved her jaw around, trying to alleviate the ringing in her ears. She shook her head, blinking to clear her thoughts. The gun wavered in her trembling hands. “Why did you do that, Ed?”
“Susan, give me your gun before you shoot yourself.”
Susan didn’t think twice. She handed her gun over to the chief. He tucked it into the back of his pants so that he could maintain a grip on his own.
“Tell me now ,” he demanded, giving her shoulder a rough shake. The bleeding on his forehead had nearly stopped. Milton had clocked him competently, but Ed’s injury was far from fatal.
Susan rubbed her own forehead, a simple detail persisting in the back of her mind.
But first, Eric and the kids.
“We have to get that trapdoor open! There’s—”
“No.” Ed clamped a hand down firmly on her bicep. “Milton. What did he tell you?”
“What?” Susan tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but he was unyielding. He, of course, didn’t know about the hostages down below, so he might not understand her need for urgency. Quickly, she explained, “He said something about a woman—to ask you about Marta.”
