by JP Ratto
Using a wonder bar he had in his truck, he pried loose the nails on one of the Dutch doors and entered. Crocker scanned the spacious interior. Protected from the elements, the inside had survived years of neglect. Five horse stalls and a tack room lined a long wall. Crocker ascended the ship’s ladder at the center of the barn to the loft. The rusted pulleys used to lift bales of hay were still at the loft door, but broken. Five trap doors in the floor allowed hay to drop to each stall below.
What was important to Crocker was the beam. He walked a few feet along the solid piece of timber and determined it would hold the weight he had in mind. He climbed down and exited the barn.
Hidden by the heavy thicket of trees that edged Farm Road sat a ranch house. Crocker guessed it had been built in the 1940s, and by the amount of damage and neglect, was unoccupied for at least twenty years. Although among the first places searched when looking for a missing person, he liked abandoned properties. There, he could move about freely preparing for his mission. He especially liked old abandoned properties. They almost always yielded surprises. Crocker soon discovered this one was no exception.
The inside of the house was much the same as the outside, crumbling, and a haven for feral animals when winter came. He exited through the kitchen door, which hung by one hinge, and scanned the backyard beyond a clump of oaks. An overgrowth of tall grasses and weeds hid any evidence of a garden or lawn.
Someone had called this place home. A fleeting memory of his youth and an unfamiliar stab of pain surged through the professional killer. His body tensed, and he pushed the thought aside. Anger and coldness had long ago replaced pain.
Crocker didn’t have a real home—he didn’t need or want one. He was a loner and an assassin whose work kept him on the move. If he had a prolonged period of down time or needed to flee, he had a place in Morocco where he could go.
He walked the back of the property, canvassing the ground as he moved. Crocker grinned when he came upon a four-foot square area of matted leaves and dirt, covered with large twigs and branches. It appeared something kept the grasses and weeds from growing. He kicked away the wood pieces and brushed the leaves and dirt to the side. Crocker stomped his boot on what lay underneath and heard a hollow sound.
Removing more debris, he exposed the perimeter of a trap door. Its rusty hinges creaked as he pulled on a handle, revealing a darkened space.
He shone a light inside. A half dozen crudely built steps led to an underground storage area. He descended the steps. The room was no more than six feet deep and the size of a large closet. The few shelves against the wall were empty but for one sealed glass jar that contained something unrecognizable.
A root cellar.
Another unpleasant memory flashed through Crocker’s mind. He climbed the steps and slammed the door shut.
***
Crocker hiked for an hour, looking for evidence of trails made by campers or signs someone had passed through. There were no boot prints or litter anywhere.
This place is pristine.
The area, with its many tall trees, rocky hills, and valleys, had the feeling of being untouched by anyone in years. Sharp blades of sunlight stabbed through the high canopy of leaves and landed on dead pine needles as far as the eye could see.
Between a row of evergreen shrubs and a steep incline at the base of the mountain lay a secluded area that suited his purpose.
No one would pass this way.
Crocker dropped his backpack, pulled a compact military shovel from its web loop, and began digging the first of two graves.
Chapter 18
Karen Martin was glad her parents had decided to go to Virginia to visit Uncle Joe and give her some space.
Her mother’s brother was an odd sort who was divorced and worked at a tobacco company. Karen thought the only reason her mother visited Joe was to make sure he didn’t run the house Sarah and Joe inherited into ruins. At least moving to Pennsylvania made for an easier drive.
She knew it was hard for them to leave her alone.
Sarah Martin, slim, fair-haired, and dressed for summer in white shorts and a pink tee, wrung her hands as she spoke.
“Honey, are you sure you’re gonna be okay here by yourself?”
Karen smiled at the woman who, as far as she knew, had given birth to her seventeen and a half years before. The family had always been inseparable. Now, Sarah and Daniel were leaving her alone for the first time.
“C’mon, Mom, of course I am. I have to get used to doing things on my own. I’ll be going to college in a few weeks.”
Karen attributed Sarah’s recent weepiness to Karen’s acceptance into Temple, where she would attend in the fall. At the mention of college, Sarah’s eyes became watery. Karen pushed aside her own anxiety about leaving home. She knew they would all adjust. They had been too dependent on each other. When Karen was young, she loved the constant attention from her parents. Except for school, she was rarely without them. But as she grew older, their devotion began to suffocate her. Karen never had the heart to tell them. She loved them dearly and thought all parents were the same.
“Mary’s coming to visit, remember? Technically, I won’t be alone. I’m so excited to see her.”
Wiping a stray tear, Sarah nodded. “I know, sweetheart. You’re all grown up now. I can’t believe how fast the time has gone by.”
Karen stood six inches over her mother and was nearly as tall as her father, who was average height at five foot ten. Both Sarah and Daniel had brown eyes and as Karen grew older, she had wondered aloud how she could be as tall as her mother at only twelve. How odd to be the only one in the family with blue eyes. Not serious, she would sometimes tease her parents that they must have found her on their doorstep like a certain fictional wizard. They would laugh and hug her and tell her how silly she was. She never caught the guilty glance that passed between Sarah and Daniel when she’d turned away.
Growing up in Vermont, Karen loved its mountain vistas, rolling hills and the farms along Lake Champlain. Daniel, trim and athletic had taught her to ski. They kayaked on the lake, biked along trails, and camped in the woods. When she was thirteen, she and her parents moved from Shelburne to Stowe.
Entering high school, Karen found it difficult to make new friends. Even though most students had already formed cliques, Barbara Hansen and Mary Wells hadn’t belonged to any group, and the three became fast friends. Since moving to Broome, Karen had only kept in touch with Mary and Jason, her ex-boyfriend.
Once they moved to Broome, Daniel and Sarah Martin spent more time with each other and less time with their daughter. Karen supposed it was their way of cutting the cord.
She had started to date a boy recently—one of a group who liked to camp off Moose Horn Trail. Karen hadn’t told her parents yet. One drama at a time.
Daniel and Sarah had packed the car early that morning and woke Karen to see them off. She hugged and kissed her parents. “Have a great time. Tell Uncle Joe I said hello.” She noticed her mother’s trembling lips, looked at her father, and frowned. Daniel Martin put an arm around his wife, coaxing her into the car.
“Let’s go, Sarah, it’s only for a few days. It’s not like we’ll never see her again.”
Karen smiled as her father pulled her into a tight hug and then slipped into the driver’s seat and drove away.
***
Enjoying some alone time, Karen stood on the back porch, holding her orange cat. Oliver purred and Karen sighed at the cloudless sky. It’s a great day to be outdoors.
Oliver must have sensed Mary’s arrival before the bell rang. He jumped out of Karen’s arms, taking off toward the steep hill at the back of the house. Karen ran inside through the kitchen and living room and yanked open the front door.
So much alike physically, she and Mary Wells could have been sisters. It may have been what drew them together, that and the fact that neither had siblings. Karen was amused that she resembled Mary’s parents, who were tall with light hair and eyes, more than she did
her own.
Mary greeted Karen with a squeal and a crushing hug. Mr. and Mrs. Wells sat in their car and waved to Karen. She jogged down the walk to see them.
“You girls have fun,” Mrs. Wells said. “Karen, tell your parents we said hi. We’ll be back this way probably the middle of next week.”
Mary Wells threw her parents a kiss and waved goodbye. When they drove away, she wrapped Karen in another crushing hug.
“C’mon,” Karen said. “Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you all about the fantastic stuff I’ve got planned.”
“No, tell me about your boyfriend.”
Karen rolled her eyes. “Sam’s not exactly a boyfriend. He’s one of the guys we camp with. We hooked up a few times.”
“Sounds like a boyfriend to me. Are we going camping?”
Karen nodded. “Camping is so cool here. All the kids our age are into it. The campsites are great, and as you get up into the mountains, the views are to die for.”
Chapter 19
After an hour of driving in the hills of Broome, Pennsylvania, Crocker found a dirt road partially concealed by weeds and climbing vines. He parked between two pine trees, keeping the blazing hot sun from heating up the rented black Ford pickup.
Opening the fiberglass camper shell, he found his backpack and removed a pair of high-powered binoculars, a tripod, and two energy bars. Leaving the pickup, he walked thirty feet to the edge of the hill, sat and looked down at the back of 26 Adams Street. He planned to spend the afternoon and evening watching the Martin home.
Crocker’s cell phone emitted a soft tone. What could he want now? “Cain, you can’t ring me up anytime you want when I’m on an assignment. Your timing usually sucks.”
There was a long pause, and then Cain responded, “Did you locate her? Have you got a plan?”
Crocker let out an impatient breath. “Yeah. I have surveillance set up now. I found an abandoned farm that will be perfect for what I have in mind.”
“Holt’s on his way to Pennsylvania.”
Crocker smiled. “Good.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
“Don’t underestimate me. Wouldn’t it have been easier to take care of him in New York?”
“No. I don’t want you anywhere near here. I don’t know what you’re going to do, but make sure it doesn’t find its way back to me. When do you think you’ll be done?”
“Shit, Cain, I don’t know. This process is fluid. I make my decisions when it makes the most sense. You sent me here with little information. I have to gather my own intel and be ready to move on a moment’s notice.”
“Okay, fine. Call me as soon it’s finished.”
“You’ll know when it’s finished.”
“Crocker, remember your priorities. You need to keep the girl and her family away from Holt. I don’t care how you deal with him.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Cain. And my priority is to accomplish the goal with no personal casualty. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
“What does that mean? Don’t harm the girl, Crocker.”
Ignoring Cain, he attached the binoculars to the tripod and pointed it at the white saltbox.
“Crocker, are you listening to me?”
“I’m done talking to you. Don’t call me again,” Crocker said and shut off the phone.
***
He saw one car in the driveway at the side of the house and lights on inside. Crocker sat back, took a bite of an energy bar, and let his mind wander.
John Crocker had been a Green Beret for four years when he joined Delta Force. It was the proudest day of his life. There were twelve hundred members in the invitation-only, elite organization.
After completing training, his team was chosen to participate in a weekend exercise. The goal was simple: capture the flag of the opposing team. The rules and the playing field were not simple. The game was conducted at night on a five-mile grid of hills and valleys. Each team knew the starting position of the opponent and the location of the flag, but the flag could be moved once within a half mile of the starting position.
All combatants were fitted with MILES—Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement Systems. A laser transmitter fitted to each rifle mimicked the range of the weapon when fired. Each soldier wore minute receivers on different parts of the body. When a player was “killed,” the receiving device emitted a loud tone that turned off by using a special key in the soldier’s possession. At that time, he removed himself from the game. There were referees at several points monitoring the competition. The teams did not physically engage each other; they used stealth.
Crocker’s DF1 team was comprised of Green Berets invited to join Delta Force. The team studied terrain maps and strategized the entire week. As squad leader, Crocker had decided to employ a routine of marching twenty feet apart and maintaining radio silence. He moved the red flag from their base camp to the half-mile perimeter and placed it high in a tree. While the terrain maps were helpful, he preferred to walk the field one night before the exercise to choose the best route. These strategies weren’t against the rules, but it defied the spirit of the game.
At first, the war game proceeded as expected; both teams advanced without a hitch. Crocker led the DF1 team two and a half miles to the halfway marker. Entering an area of dense trees and brush, he halted and stretched both arms out telling his team to kneel.
Crocker heard a disturbing whirring that wasn’t there the night before. Making eye contact with team members on either side of him, he signed, “Cover me.” He watched as the sign was repeated down the line and then moved forward, slow and silent.
If team DF6 is ahead, they aren’t drawing a breath.
Crocker took two paces forward. The low drone escalated to a loud hum. He brushed against a shrub, provoking an angry horde of hornets to fill the air and attack every inch of his exposed skin. His arms spazzed as he tried to wave off the frenzied insects and pull mosquito netting from his bush hat over his face. Crocker struggled not to make a sound. All his team could do was watch in horror as their leader’s face began to swell.
Moments later, his pain and humiliation deepened when Crocker’s MILES alarm shrieked as a Delta Force 6 operative tagged him. He staggered off the field of engagement, swearing under his breath.
A DF6 member snickered in the brush, giving away his location. Three of Crocker’s DF1 teammates converged on him. At that moment, the rest of DF6 silently circled them and, after combat crawling a safe distance, broke into a run to the DF1 base.
The DF6 snickering decoy was tagged. Thinking there were more DF6 soldiers ahead, Crocker’s team maintained cover and advanced. Thirty minutes had passed by the time they reached their opponent’s base camp. Three DF1 team members were instructed to break cover and pursue someone running in the opposite direction, carrying a blue flag. They lost their prey twice before picking him up again. Team DF1 surrounded and trapped him at the perimeter of the DF6 base camp.
Lucas Holt, Army Ranger, now Delta Force 6 squad leader waved a fake flag that read, ‘Green Berets are a bunch of Wussies.’
Delta Force 6, alone at the opposition’s base, used flashlights and found the flag in the tree.
Crocker had walked the route the night before. There was no hornet nest. He still scratched the facial scars, still knew the anguish and embarrassment of leaving his squad on the field, and always suspected Lucas Holt had placed the hornets’ nest in their path.
Holt’s gonna pay.
Chapter 20
By noon I headed out of the city, west through New Jersey on I-78, and within an hour and a half passed over the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Unlike the winding northern route through the Pocono Mountains, moderate hills flanked the relatively mundane interstate highway. Once past Harrisburg, I picked up the turnpike, traveling through small to medium-sized towns, state forests, parks, and game lands.
Although my ultimate destination was Smoulder, I exited the turnpike at Somerset, twenty minutes away. I checked into on
e of the local hotel chains and inquired about renting a vehicle. Speedy Car & Truck Rental was a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel. I called ahead to see if they had what I wanted, which they did, and grabbed a Starbucks on the way there. Forty-five slow minutes later, I pulled a nondescript gray truck with local plates next to my Rover and transferred a few items to the rental. I brought the rest, my suitcase, duffel, and laptop to the room.
By the time I’d eaten, showered, and dressed, I had little more than an hour before meeting Daniel Martin. The weather channel forecasted clear skies and an evening temperature of fifty-seven degrees. I wore boot-cut jeans, a black golf shirt and sports jacket, and leather desert boots.
As I locked my laptop and personal effects in the room safe, my cell rang. The number was vaguely familiar.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Holt, this is Kathryn Sullivan. You left a message on my answering machine.”
“Yes, thank you for returning my call.”
“I have to say your note and message were a bit unsettling. I’ve never spoken to a private investigator before. You want to know about the Martins. Has something happened?”
“As far as I know the Martins are fine. I just need to locate them regarding a business matter. I was told they moved to Pennsylvania. Do you happen to know specifically where?”
“No, we didn’t have any personal conversations with them. We only talked about the house. I know the daughter was planning to go to school in Pennsylvania.”
“Yes, I know. Is there anything else you can remember? Sometimes idle chitchat yields information. It could be something you overheard them saying among themselves.”
