by P. T. Reade
The ground started to drop as I neared the edge of the property. The place was ramshackle and looked more like a junkyard than a farm as I got closer to the house. I could see a shed several yards away from Billy’s house. There were also two broken-down trucks and an ancient, long-faded tractor. I headed for the shed, planning to use it for cover as I snuck up on his house.
With my eyes on the buildings, I misjudged the lay of the land.
“Shit!”
My foot suddenly slipped, and before I knew it, my ankle was on fire, and I was on the ground, sliding quickly. I tried to correct myself, reaching out for a nearby tree, but that only resulted in causing me to tumble. I felt mud slide down my back, and my right leg was momentarily pinned beneath me.
I came to a stop at the base of a small hill, breathing heavily. Waiting for the shock of what had just happened to pass, I managed to get to my feet, clawing at the small hill behind me. As I stood up, I realized that what I was seeing was not a hill, but some sort of mound.
I thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be a collection of debris and detritus from rainwater washing down the hill over the years.
But then I saw a white shred of fabric, barely peeking through the mud. Hesitantly, I reached down and pulled at it. It would not come free. I set to digging around the area, revealing more of the white fabric and then struck something solid.
I stopped in horror, realizing what I was looking at. A bone jutted from the dank ground.
“My God,” I muttered, staring at the jagged piece of human remains.
I nearly started to dig again and then saw two other similar mounds to my right. I was literally digging into the past and turning up a world of death and pain.
I could have kept digging, but I sensed that time was slipping away. When this was all over, I’d call the police and let them do the proper search.
My ankle throbbed as I carefully made my way to the edge of the yard and made a limped dash for the shed. A small door was situated along the side. I barely peeked in, too concerned with getting to the house and confronting Billy Bennett. I had no gun, no weapon…I had no idea how I was going to subdue him.
The smart move would have been to arrive with backup or a weapon. But when did I ever do the smart thing lately? Blind determination was my idiotic calling card and there was more than my life at stake here.
I walked away from the door but then froze. I took a step back and peeked through the thin slat between the door and the warped frame. There were several burlap sacks and a few old milk crates piled in the corners. I also saw several shovels, an axe, and a pitchfork.
I pushed the creaking door open and walked inside.
The rain fell in drips through the ceiling, but I was scarcely aware of this. Instead, my eyes went to the milk crates. There were some children’s toys and even old notebooks in them, stacked thick to the top, some dated from decades ago. I flipped through the most recent one I came to. It did not take me long to get a glimpse into who Billy Bennett was…and a certainty that if he had not taken Jack Ellington, the bastard was probably guilty of a lot more. What I read was sickening.
…and he screamed with the cloth over his mouth and it sounded like some weak little engine…
…surprised when his ribs cracked under my weight and you should have SEEN the light go out in his eyes…
…the boards need washing again form all the blood. I saw a fingernail there yesterday…a little chipped fingernail like half a moon…
…because I don’t know if the stupid boy was dead when I started to undress him and…
I read quickly, trying not to dwell on the words too much. In the margins, Billy had also drawn crude sketches of genitals and other body parts that made me shudder. Then I saw one line in the oldest book that sent a sharp chill up my spine:
He’s a boring, goody-two-shoes-arsehole, but Henry loves me. He’s a good father, I guess, but even he doesn’t understand the things in my head. I’m sorry, Henry….
The realization threatened to split my head open right where the hangover had started the job.
***
I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I continued to the burlap sacks. There were two of them, neither of which were tied closed. I started to feel uneasy. It was almost like this sicko wanted to get caught. I wondered how long all of this stuff had been out here, hidden by only a paltry wooden door.
One of the sacks contained nothing more than old dry pine needles. I disregarded this one and looked into the next. An odd assortment of clothes were inside, as well as a watch, a pair of sunglasses and a pair of children’s shoes. I searched through the clothes, touching them like they might bite me.
I came to a white tee shirt and was nearly slapped in the face with understanding.
On the front of the shirt was the name of a band: The Who.
The last shirt Jack Ellington had been seen wearing.
That was enough for me. Hell, I wasn’t even going to bother with going into Bennett’s house. Someone else could play hero. I was going to head back to my car and call the cops on my cellphone right now. I turned and stepped through the door, the rain still coming down.
That’s when I heard it.
A cry cut through the pouring rain. Immediately I flattened myself against the corner of the shed. Peering around the side I eyed the farmhouse, wondering if I had imagined it.
Again I heard the sound.
There was no doubt in my mind now: it was coming from the house. And whoever was making it was young.
The missing boy. It was him screaming, the boy who had recently disappeared. It had to be. As far from the house as I was, there was no way for me to tell what that scream meant. Was he hollering for help? Was he in pain? Was he dying? Was it all three?
I turned away from the building and leaned my back up against the shed, sighing. So much for going back to the car and calling the cops. With my twisted ankle that could take 20 minutes, and time was one thing I didn’t have a lot of. There was no telling what condition the boy in the house was in, or how long he had before Bennett turned him into just another pile of mud and bone.
All of a sudden I wanted a drink. No, I needed a drink. My mouth went dry and my tongue was crumpled sandpaper, threatening to choke me to death. I groped around in my jacket for my hip flask, but when I pulled it out it was empty. “Shit”.
My mind began to spin, trying to think of any way to rationalize the overwhelming thirst that had just swept over me. Maybe, I pondered, I should go back to my car and call the cops just as I had intended. Then I could drive over to a pub and drink until the real police took care of everything.
After all, I had no gun and no badge; how could anyone expect me to do anything by myself?
I had almost convinced myself that this was the best plan, when the scream sounded a third time.
If you can't do the smart thing, do the right thing.
No, I realized with grim finality. This was my case. It would have to be me. Gun or no gun, badge or no badge, I had to save that kid.
So I stood. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my ankle and pushed myself away from the shed. Trudging across the muddy ground, I headed for the house, trying to remain as hidden from view as possible. As I got closer and closer, I continued to pray that Bennett wasn’t even home. That I could just break a window, climb inside, find the boy and rescue him. No fuss, no muss.
I stayed alert as I neared the side of the house, eyeing the windows to make sure nobody was watching me. Finally I made it to the building and pressed myself flat against the wall. Slowly creeping over to a first floor window I peered inside.
Through the rain soaked glass I could just make out a dim parlor. The room was mostly bare and what furniture there was looked old and musty. Bare floorboards were stained with damp and wallpaper seemed to be peeling from the walls.
The lights were off and the house looked uninhabited, silent as a crypt. Maybe Bennett really was gone.
I crept further along
to the next window, aiming for a better view. There were stacks of old newspapers, some trash bags and an old refrigerator, but no sign of the missing boy. Somewhere in the house I heard a floorboard creak as someone large moved around.
I was beginning to despair when finally I saw him.
The tiny figure was almost invisible in the dark corner. The kid couldn't have been more than nine or ten but he was filthy and ragged, clothes torn and face bruised. His wrists had been rubbed raw where plastic ties had crudely bound him to an old radiator and his mouth was gagged with a dirty rag.
For a moment I thought that I was too late and the poor boy was already gone, he was so still, but a then a miniscule breath inflated his chest and I saw hope.
I cupped my hand against the glass to get a better view. Suddenly the boy's gaze flicked up. I froze in place as our eyes met. Shit. I could see his mouth moving and he started to struggle. I shook my head and signaled for him to stay quiet.
I had to get the kid out, fast.
Still, I would have to be sure before I did anything drastic. I knew I'd need something to cut the ties with so I decided to go around the back of the house and do some reconnaissance, to learn as much as I could before making my move. Still trying to stay as flat against the wall as possible, I turned away from the window and—
That’s when it happened.
Through the torrent of water, I barely saw the board come sailing towards my face. I brought my hand up just in time, but there was still an explosion of pain in my arm and I was pretty sure a few of my fingers were broken.
I went to the ground and looked up into the pouring rain. Billy Bennett was standing over me, holding a wooden two-by-four in his hands, eyes wild with rage. The thunderous downpour coated him in water like a vengeful monster. He raised the board, as if he were about to strike a golf ball, aimed for my face.
My world was a kaleidoscope of pain. Everything was spinning. I managed to send my foot hard into Billy’s left knee. He stumbled just a bit, but that was all I needed. I got to my hands and knees and charged at him. He raised the board with a roar, and I collided with him just as he brought it down. It bounced off of my back, and we went sliding into the mud.
I wasted no time delivering a punch to his stomach and one to his face, crushing his nose. He bellowed and threw me off with an elbow to my chest. I let out a whoosh of air as I stumbled back, slipping in the mud and falling on my ass. I tried to get up, but the damn rain made the ground too slippery and my ankle was shot.
I got to one knee, but not before Billy’s full weight came charging at me. With a sickening crunch he landed a kick to my ribs, and fire erupted in my chest. All the air left my lungs and agony overcame my body. I tried to move, to escape, to do anything, but my gasps of breath came ragged. I was pretty sure I tasted blood.
I was only half aware when Billy picked the board up again and this time brought back like a baseball bat.
I was dead.
My body just hadn’t realized it yet.
I tried to climb to my feet, but the muscles in my arm had given up long ago, and I collapsed to the rain-soaked dirt. The comfortable numbness of defeat welcoming me.
“Get down.”
As I lay there, thunder rumbling and icy droplets stinging my face, I stared at the twisted form of death above me, and I knew the painful truth. This was it. All of my searching, all of my fighting was for nothing. I’d have laughed if I could have remembered how.
Then the voices came again, calling for me to surrender my struggle against the inevitable, dragging me from consciousness.
“Give it up,” they echoed.
I glanced to the bitter rain clouds as colored stars wheeled overhead and time slowed to a crawl. The monster lifted his arm to finish me, and I watched him swing the weapon at my head, beckoning me beyond.
“Blume?!”
Then it all went black.
I’d known that was it. The board was going to hit my face, breaking every bone above my neck—and maybe my neck itself.
Then I saw it. Billy had stopped. His feet locked up, and his eyes went wide. It made no sense to me at first, but then I noticed that he was spasming. I strained to look all around as the giant dropped to his knees, in obvious pain. He gave me a confused look and then fell face down in the mud, the board still in his hands.
Then I spotted them behind Bennett’s twitching body. Two police cars, with flashing colored lights painting the rain in brilliant hues of red and blue. Two officers sprinted through the mud, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
The police were shouting something. One of them held a stun gun, the hair-thin wires stretched out to where they had attached themselves to Bennett’s back.
Were they shouting to me?
“Blume?!”
I waved them off and pointed into the shed. “The house,” I gasped as best I could. “And there are…graves… bottom of the hill.”
They said something to me, but I didn’t catch it. All I heard was the pouring torrent as it dumped down on me. I lay in the mud and didn’t move for quite some time. I tried to stay awake for what seemed like hours. It might have been seconds.
Eventually I surrendered to the darkness and the steady rhythm of the rain.
ELEVEN
Breaking the habit.
An hour later, I found myself propped up on a stretcher in Billy Bennett’s living room, getting patched up by the medics. Several police were milling around, looking through his belongings, including, I noticed, the two detectives who had harangued me at my apartment. They simply passed by with a grudging nod.
I was drinking stale coffee with my left hand. My right hand was bandaged up. So was my chest. My ring finger and pinky had been broken and my palm had swollen to the size of an apple from warding off Billy’s board. At some point in the skirmish, I had also taken a blow to the side of my head, which had now been dressed by the ambulance crew.
After Billy had been taken into custody, the police had found three bodies in the poorly covered mounds that I had stumbled on. The corpses were too decomposed to identify them at the scene, but one thing was for sure: all three had been children. And with the discovery of Jack Ellington’s Who T-shirt, I was willing to bet he was one of them.
The police were also looking through the journals in the shed. Judging by the muted conversations I overheard, they were pretty sure there were at least two more bodies elsewhere on the property.
It’d been too late to save them, but there had been one saving grace of my fumbling heroics. Charlie Haines, the missing schoolboy, was alive, if not well. The kid had been whisked off to hospital. He had been bruised, catatonic with fear, and would probably require years of therapy, but the cops told me he was expected to make a full recovery in time.
“That was some timing,” I told the officer in charge of the investigation as he passed through.
“It was. It was a weird tip, too,” he said.
“How so?”
We got the call from a former Chief of Police. Bloke hasn’t even been on the force for five years. Then, 30 minutes later, I see him in the station in cuffs. It’s a damn shame.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said. Secretly thankful for Atkinson’s last minute act of bravery. He may have been a self-righteous asshole, but it seemed Henry Atkinson had finally had a crisis of conscience and turned himself at the last minute, saving my life, Charlie’s life, and probably many more. Whether it had been my confrontation with him that had caused Atkinson to do the right thing, or pure guilt, I would never know. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that Charlie Haines’ mother would get her son back tonight. She would never know the pain that Elizabeth Ellington had felt. The pain that I had felt.
Amir had been right. In my determination to solve my own family’s murder, I had accomplished nothing but a spiraling descent into boozy self-pity. When I had tried to help someone else though, someone who still had a shot at happiness, I had actually been able to make a differ
ence. Considering how much pain I was in, that felt pretty good.
Though there were still holes in my theory, I had put most of it together after seeing the notebooks. Bennett was not Atkinson’s nephew as he had told me. Atkinson had been raised by a foster family, so at some point he and his wife had wanted to give back to the process. They had adopted a troubled kid, probably one with a history of abuse and mental issues; William Hudson. He was their adopted son.
At least for a few years. It wasn’t long before Billy left his foster home. Whether Billy had run away or had been kicked out due to his disturbing tendencies remained to be seen. However, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Atkinson had gotten rid of the troubled child, worried that custody of such a kid might taint his exemplary reputation.
