Kevin winced when he swallowed the two pills, but it didn’t hurt as bad as back at the dump.
Elliot’s eyes went wide and still behind his glasses. “I’ve never seen anybody take drugs before.”
They soaked a washcloth in hot water and wiped the trickle of dried blood away from Kevin’s ear. After that they looked over themselves in the mirror, trying to gauge if anyone else would be able to see the terror. Kevin felt that his mom would sense the screaming panic just behind his eyes, but at least the blood was gone. If he kept his eyes down, and didn’t talk much, he might be able to escape to his room before she suspected anything.
Elliot asked the question that had been chasing them since the dump, like a slow but inevitable freight train. “What are you going to do?”
Kevin stared at himself and tentatively touched his left earlobe. “I don’t know.”
Elliot buried the washcloth in the dirty laundry bin and locked the door behind them. They retrieved their bikes and rode off, making plans to meet tomorrow at the library after school if things didn’t fall apart in the meantime.
Kevin rode home. He had to give Mrs. Kobritz some story, something boring so she wouldn’t mention it to his mom. When he got there though, the house was locked. Mrs. Kobritz usually parked her little Toyota at the curb. The space was empty. The house was silent when he let himself in. Perfect. He wasn’t expecting it, and it had never happened before, but he wasn’t going to complain.
He surprised himself and found that he was starving. He threw a few turkey corn dogs in the microwave and took them up to his room in the attic. After leaving his math homework on the bed, he settled in front of his giant, ancient television. The thing was so old and heavy it had taken both him and his mom to carry it up to his room. He dunked his corndog in ketchup and powered up the used game system he’d gotten for Christmas last year.
He kept the volume low so he could hear the front door when his mom got home. That way, he could try and claim he’d been working on homework. His mom would know better, but he figured it was better to get caught for a minor infraction, instead of raising her suspicion.
All he knew was that he had to get the gun back into the hiding place before she noticed it was gone.
Bob was in the bathroom again. He strained. He pushed. He gritted his teeth.
Still nothing.
He thought his announcement at the Korner Kafe had been a disaster, since that cheap prick Walsh had decided to pick that particular morning to be even more of an asshole than usual. But Cochran had surprised him by saying that the whole thing had been fine.
In the pickup on the ride back, Cochran smiled and patted Bob’s shoulder. “Hell, I’ve been to press conferences that were a hundred times worse. You did great. The farmer throwing his weight around, Walsh, is it? He was going to ask questions no matter what you told him. He just needed a chance to show everybody that he’s still a tough guy. Don’t worry about it. No, the important thing is that everyone saw your strength. That’s what will last.” Cochran squeezed Bob’s shoulder one last time, then looked out the window at the rows of corn that flashed past in hypnotic bursts. “That cocksucker wants to push things, he’ll find out the hard way that the people in charge don’t take kindly to troublemakers.”
Bob had been reassured at the time.
Back at home, back in the bathroom, he just wanted to feel better. He hadn’t eaten anything in at least fourteen hours yet still couldn’t pass anything. He’d thrown up his wife’s prune juice that she kept in the back of the refrigerator. He’d swallowed a couple of Dulcolax as soon as they’d got home. So far, nothing.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if his stomach had been still. But he felt constant mounting pressure inside, as if something was pushing his stomach and guts into his spine. No matter how hard he forced and squeezed, it felt like he’d swallowed foam insulation that had settled and expanded.
He got up, disgusted with himself, zipped. Washed his hands. Saw that his skin was starting to break out. Weird little blackheads were clustered around his frown lines. Perfect. Just what he needed. He spent some time scraping his tongue against his teeth and spitting into the sink. The spit was black and foul. He ran water for a while to wash it all down the drain so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.
He checked his watch. He’d been in the bathroom ten minutes. It was past time to get out, to get back to Cochran. Bob didn’t want to leave his guest for too long. It was bad enough his wife would not leave their master bedroom.
There was another reason as well. Cochran had asked to look over his records, just to make sure there wasn’t anything that the press could get hold of and make things embarrassing for the Morton family. Cochran had been awfully convincing, and Bob had opened up everything, spreading it all out on his antique rolltop desk. He’d expected Cochran to glance at everything and declare it all up to snuff. Instead, Cochran rolled up his sleeves, asked for a cup of coffee, and spent hours poring over Bob’s records, seed receipts, fuel usage, acreage and yield estimates, and every other damn thing.
Bob was starting to regret giving the man so much access to his private business and didn’t want Cochran to uncover anything unpleasant, least of all the two acres out by the expressway where he’d planted Junior’s seeds.
He dried his face, made sure his shirt was tucked into his jeans, and stepped into the living room. His rolltop desk was over by the big windows. Reports, graphs, and receipts were strewn about as if a tornado had hit the desk and sprayed everything inside out onto the floor.
Cochran looked up and smiled. “Feeling okay?” he asked. “I can get a doctor out here in the hour, if you need.”
Bob shook his head. “Feel fine. Besides, I got any problems, I can always call Mike Castle. He’s been taking care of me and Belinda for years, hell, decades now, I suppose.”
“Of course, of course.” Cochran nodded. “I just meant if you wanted to discuss anything that maybe you wouldn’t want to talk about with your family doc, then I know some folks, experts in their field, that might help, that’s all. Anything different, unusual. That’s all.”
Bob drew himself up to his full height. “I feel fine. I am tired. I miss my son.”
Cochran nodded solemnly. “And God bless you for having the strength to carry on.” He nodded more briskly. “Just wanted to let you know that any other care you might want is available. You need anything, anything at all, you let me know.”
“I appreciate that. Anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”
Cochran studied his face. Bob couldn’t tell if the lawyer’s gaze lingered on the weird blackheads near his mouth. Then the moment was gone, and Cochran turned back to his paperwork. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest. The memorial service is tomorrow, after all. Might be a good idea for you and your wife to get some sleep. I would imagine the media will be out in full force; we’d like to have you looking your best.”
Bob didn’t want to admit it, but Cochran had a point. Bob was feeling awfully tired. He wouldn’t dare disrupt his wife in their bedroom, but there was always the bed in the guest bedroom. It was made and empty; Cochran had been sleeping on the couch in the living room. A lie down in a nice, dark, cool room might be just what Bob needed. He said, “Okay,” and started up the stairs.
Cochran called to him as Bob started up to the second floor. “Oh, you know anything offhand about this little bit of land you’ve got, a skinny patch down by I-72? Your records are somewhat confusing.”
Bob had sense enough to keep climbing the stairs. “No idea. I’ll look everything over later. Right now, I need some rest.”
It had been a hell of a day. Sandy promised herself that once she had paid Mrs. Kobritz, she was going to step into the garage and beat the shit out of the bag for a while. Then, after a hot bath and a large glass of red wine, it was time to sit down with Kevin and find out, once and for all, what was happening with her son.
Back at the office, she had ultimately sat back at he
r desk and typed out a report so vague and sloppy it would have made her instructors crumple it up and throw it in the trash. It certainly wouldn’t stand up to any kind of scrutiny from Illinois Internal Affairs. She hoped it would never come to that.
For today, it was enough to simply get through the report and not piss off Sheriff Hoyt.
Mrs. Kobritz’s car was not out front. Sandy pulled into the driveway and collected her thoughts. In the past five years, Mrs. Kobritz had never missed a day or night looking after Kevin. It was possible the old lady had forgotten, but something in Sandy’s gut, the same feeling that told her that Kurt hadn’t killed Ingrid, was now telling her that Mrs. Kobritz wasn’t the kind of woman who would forget to look after a child.
Sandy went inside and called out, “Kevin? Mrs. Kobritz?”
Kevin appeared at the top of his stairs. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Where’s Mrs. Kobritz?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. She wasn’t here when I got home.”
“That’s . . . different.”
He shrugged again.
“She never called, anything?”
He shook his head.
“What are you up to?”
“Uh . . . homework?”
“Sure,” Sandy said, nodding as if she believed him. “No more games until your homework is done. I mean it.”
“Okay, Mom.” He rubbed his left jaw as if it hurt, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Maybe his molars were coming in or something.
Sandy dug out her cell phone and called Mrs. Kobritz. Mrs. Kobritz lived by herself in an old farmhouse south of town, not too far from the Einhorns. Sandy listened to the phone ring and started to realize that if Mrs. Kobritz didn’t answer, she would have to drive out to Mrs. Kobritz’s house. That meant she would have to drive past the Einhorn place, something she wasn’t looking forward to. The phone continued to ring. She didn’t expect an answer. Mrs. Kobritz didn’t own a cell phone. She didn’t even have an answering machine.
As Sandy listened to one ring after another in Mrs. Kobritz’s empty house, a tight ball of apprehension began to grow in her chest. Mrs. Kobritz and her late husband never had any children of their own. The old widow would never simply not answer her phone, no more than she would ever leave a child alone. The more the phone rang, the more Sandy became convinced that something had happened.
Sandy was just about to hang up when the connection clicked and opened, and Mrs. Kobritz was on the other end, all breathless and frantic.
“Hello, hello?”
“Mrs. Kobritz? This is Sandy. I—”
“Oh thank God it’s you. Please, you have to come help me.”
“Are you okay? I—”
“Please, please come help me look for him. I don’t know what happened.”
“Look for who?”
“Puffing Bill, of course. He’s gone. Please, I have to find him.” Puffing Bill was the pit bull Mrs. Kobritz had picked up from the animal shelter a few months after her husband had died. Cops had found the dog at the end of some country road. Mrs. Kobritz had instantly named the dog after her father’s favorite train engine. Her father was a huge train buff. The entire second floor of Mrs. Kobritz’s childhood home was taken over by a massive model train layout. She knew her father had seen some awful things after landing in France during D-Day, and although he never spoke of his experiences, he’d found a release for all that stress by playing with his trains. He favored the trains of the Wild West, mostly the Jupiter trains, but his absolute favorite had been the very first steam locomotive ever built, Puffing Billy, from England.
That’s where the name originated. It was better to tell people the story of the name, instead of where the dog himself had come from. He’d survived the life of a fighter and had gotten loose somehow, instead of being shot, clubbed to death, or used as bait to stoke a stronger dog’s bloodlust. When he’d been found, he’d been all chewed up and damn near dead. The vets donated their time and patched him up, but ultimately had to amputate his front right leg.
Once it healed, it didn’t slow him down much at all. He got used to a quick hopping motion to move around, and before long, he could move quicker than any human. It didn’t look like he felt his past wounds at all. Savage scars from ripping teeth had been torn across his body. Most of his lower lip was gone. His harsh, whistling way of breathing had also contributed to the name of Puffing Bill.
Mrs. Kobritz loved that dog like the child she’d never had.
Sandy tried again. “Mrs. Kobritz, I don’t—”
“He’s been gone since I let him out this morning! You have to help me.” It came out plaintive, stripped of any pretense, straight down to the naked need, pleading with Sandy to make everything all right and bring her dog home.
“This is really a job for the animal control officer, let me call him—”
“That man would not know his own ass from a hole in the ground.” For Mrs. Kobritz, this was pure blasphemy, worse than if a demon had possessed her and proclaimed to the town that Satan fucked her in the ass every Sunday morning before church and she was enjoying the living hell out of it. “And you know it.”
Sandy didn’t know what to say. She certainly couldn’t argue with Mrs. Kobritz. The animal control officer, Mark Higgins, was a sloppy drunk who was more than happy to catch neighborhood dogs and exterminate them to pump up his quota and justify his salary. She sighed. “Fine,” she said eventually. “I’ll be out as soon as I can.”
She hung up and dialed Elliot’s parents, Randy and Patty, and asked if she could drop Kevin off. They were over the moon that their son had a friend, and would do anything to help. Sandy called up the stairs to Kevin. “Grab your toothbrush and pj’s and anything else you need. This might take a while.”
Technically, she was off the clock. Despite Sheriff Hoyt’s insinuation that she was rarely on duty, she’d spent too much time at work this week already, and that made the union and the folks at OSHA nervous. And technically, she shouldn’t have been driving the cruiser. She shouldn’t have still been in her uniform.
But Sandy figured being chief superseded all that and besides, no civilian was going to complain. Instead, she worried if she was pushing her luck by slowing as she approached the Einhorn place. She wanted to see the circus firsthand but knew she shouldn’t risk being seen. She should be going so fast that if somebody happened to glance down the driveway, she would be nothing but a blink of headlights in the last faint glimmer of summer light.
Being on duty a few hours too many could be overlooked. Spying on cops working a crime scene was another thing. She chewed this over and kept the needle at sixty miles per hour as the cruiser passed County Road E and knew she had just over thirty seconds until she passed the Einhorn place. She took her foot off the gas.
Even though she’d decided to sidestep this particular hurricane, she was still curious. She flicked off the lights and coasted in darkness.
As she got closer, Sandy knew they hadn’t found Ingrid. If they had, the place would be quiet. Now, it was ablaze with raised lights. Stuttering sparks of camera flashes drilled into the night as Mike, the county forensics investigator, did his best to document everything. Lots of lights. But no sirens.
The cruiser slowed until it almost rolled to a complete stop. She got a good look up the driveway. There was no question. Sheriff Hoyt and his boys were still looking for a body.
Lights flashed on the Johnson’s front porch and made Sandy jump. The front door opened and slammed. A young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, which would have made her one of the older children, ran out into the front lawn. A split second later, Meredith’s stern silhouette filled the doorway. “You get back in here right now.” Her voice was like a steel bear trap, and with each word, it snapped shut. “You know very well you are not allowed outside this late. Get back in here and say goodnight to your father.”
The girl turned, clenched her fists, and stamped her foot. “He’s sick. I won’t touch him.”
Sandy didn’t have much of an answer.
Meredith wasn’t listening anyway. “You don’t fool me, Chief Chisel. You mind your own business.” With that, she swept the girl inside and slammed the door.
Sandy feathered the gas and passed the driveway, still keeping the headlights turned off. She followed the road by starlight.
Mrs. Kobritz’s house was a half mile down. It was a relatively new house for the area, meaning it had been built in the last fifty years or so. The front yard was full of flowers and rainbow-colored wind wheels. They hung motionless in the headlights as Sandy parked the cruiser next to Mrs. Kobritz’s Toyota.
It looked like every light in the house was on, spilling golden light into the deepening shadows. Sandy kept her headlights on and walked up to the front door. She knocked. Rang the doorbell. Sandy called out, “Mrs. Kobritz?”
No answer.
She tried the front door. It opened. “Mrs. Kobritz?”
Silence.
“Shit,” Sandy breathed. Why couldn’t anything be simple? She called out again, but knew the house was empty. If Mrs. Kobritz or Puffing Bill had heard, they would be at the front door in a heartbeat. Still, she couldn’t leave the house without checking. So she made a quick sweep. No surprises. It was empty.
The house was built at the crest of a low hill, surrounded by a typically expansive lawn. Flower beds and wind wheels bordered the grass. Attached garage. No barn. No outbuildings at all. A low fence of crosshatched railroad ties separated the back lawn from the cornfields. She flicked her Maglite around the immediate property, just in case Mrs. Kobritz had fallen and was hurt, but Sandy knew it was useless.
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