by JP Ratto
She was silent for a few seconds.
“No, nothing I can recall.”
“What about their mail? I imagine they arranged for the post office to forward their mail. Any conversations about that with the mailman?”
“No, we hardly ever see him. We’re usually working.”
I could hear her sigh.
“Sorry I can’t be more help.”
I was disappointed the call was a dead end and didn’t want to waste any more time. I had an appointment to keep.
“Thank you again, Mrs. Sullivan, for taking the time to call me. Of course, if you think of—”
“Oh wait, I just remembered. We received a package shortly after we moved in. I had to take it to the post office so they could forward it.”
I didn’t see the significance of what she was telling me. If delivered to her home, then the address on the package would be the Martins’ former one. I checked the time. It was after seven.
“Was there something about the package you think would be helpful to me? Do you remember who sent it? Was it from an individual or a business?”
I thought I might trace their new address through another person or business.
“No, I don’t remember who sent the package. But there was definitely something about it that sticks in my mind.”
“Okay, I have to go, but if you think of anything else, please let me know. Anything at all. A place or a name.”
“That’s it!” Kathryn Sullivan shouted into the phone.
“What?”
“The name of the town on the package. The number of the house and street were correct as well as the state and zip code. I guess that’s why it was delivered. I remember our regular mailman was on vacation. We were getting a lot of the Martins’ mail. But the name of the town was crossed out. It wasn’t Stowe. It was Broome.”
***
A quick internet search verified there was indeed a Broome, Pennsylvania. Still intent on keeping my date with Daniel Martin, I slipped a burner phone and a wallet with some cash and an expired driver’s license into my jacket pocket. I like to have ID on me, but not knowing what situation I was walking into, I’d rather not chance losing anything too valuable. Setting my personal phone to silent, I strapped it on my left leg at the knee. My .38 special rested snugly in a holster at my right ankle.
At 7:25 p.m. I drove the rented truck southwest to Smoulder.
A faded sign, swinging on one rusty chain and boasting an establishment date of 1870, stood at the town limits. I should have suggested Mr. Martin and I meet at high noon. To describe Smoulder as rundown would be an understatement. Two deserted gas stations, one on each corner, marked the entrance to Park Street. Dusty, littered sidewalks with chipped curbs and weeds sprouting through cracks presented a poor first impression and didn’t live up to its name.
The two-lane main drag ran straight-as-an-arrow, seven blocks end to end. One-story commercial buildings on both sides of the first two streets housed a hardware store, a small grocery convenience store, an insurance agency, and a cigar shop. Early twentieth-century row houses, some with abandoned first-floor shops, faced each other across Park Street for another two blocks. I could see to the cross street at the end, which was backed by wooded hills.
Gunslinger’s Saloon occupied the first floor of a fire-singed brick building. Plywood boards covered the second and third story windows of the corner row house. Cars and pickups filled half the lot on the side of the building.
No one entered or exited as I passed by and took the second left down Clover Lane. The streets off Park, named for foliage, constituted the residential area of Smoulder, a scattering of two-story frame houses and empty lots. I didn’t see a municipal building, police or fire station, or a school. In fact, I didn’t see a soul as I drove up and down the side streets.
Back on Park, I cruised to the end of town. A bank wedged between two old houses was the only place of activity. Patrons, mostly men in tattered jeans, graphic tees, and work boots, streamed in and out. I couldn’t help thinking it was payday and I’d see most of them down at the saloon. I wanted to leave the truck in a public place and found the best I could do was the bank.
Parking near the only light in the lot, I left the key fob in the truck, locked it with a spare key, and dropped it in a nearby planter. If someone planned an ambush, without a key fob on my person, he wouldn’t find my truck. At ten to eight, I made my way to the Gunslinger’s Saloon. The streetlights that lined the main street gave off a dull glow. Smoulder was a town that could only improve with darkness. I thought it was too bad I’d be there to see it.
I could hear Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire” before pulling open the dark glass door. The inside was what you would expect from the outside: long and narrow, run down, mismatched tables and chairs, and a bar that looked homemade. There were country album covers on the wall. Despite the gruff decor, Gunslinger’s Saloon attracted both sexes. I grabbed the lone open stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a beer. I was wary about meeting a stranger in a seedy bar, at night, in a neighborhood that had seen much better days.
Glancing around, everyone was paired with dates or spouses except two men standing at the opposite end of the bar. One bearded and one bald. I could only observe them from the chest up. Beard was thin and had a scruffy goatee. His frayed farmer’s shirt was missing a breast pocket. Beady eyes darted in my direction and back to his beer.
If I had to bet on which one was the alpha male, it would be Bald. His round face was clean-shaven and his lips were set in a permanent frown. He wore a clean, pressed, western-style shirt, which clung to his barrel chest. Bald divided his attention between a scantily clad woman with thin, bleached hair and me. I made a mental note to see if they became too interested in what I did.
Johnny Cash gave way to Lee Greenwood singing “God Bless the USA.” The crowd began rocking and singing when a new customer walked in. He scanned the bar and picked me out, approaching with a grin on his ruddy face and his hand out.
“Are you Holt?”
A worn, plaid short-sleeve shirt covered his husky frame. His shoes looked to be steel-tipped construction boots that were new ten years ago. If this was Daniel Martin, ski instructor, then I was Patsy Cline.
I needed to play along and learn what I could. I stood and shook his hand. “I’m Lucas Holt. Thanks for taking time to talk, Mr. Martin.”
“Oh, sure, glad to. Call me Danny.” He winced when a group seated at a table having their own private party began to hoot and howl with laughter. “Maybe we should talk outside where we can hear each other better.”
If we sat in a booth, and Beard and Bald came over, I’d be trapped and unable to defend myself. Worse, if a fight ensued, the bar manager could involve the police and I’d be spending the night trying to talk myself out of jail. Outside, I knew I could eliminate them one at a time.
“Sounds good, Danny,” I said. He had the wide grin of a lottery winner frozen on his face.
I twisted to leave a tip for the bartender, which allowed me to glimpse the end of the bar. Bald had lost his lustful interest in the stringy-haired blonde. Beard appeared not to notice he held an empty beer glass. This smelled like one of Glick’s tricks.
I glanced back at “Danny” Martin, returning his grin with one of my own. He walked toward the front door and I followed.
Outside, Martin turned to face me, which kept my back to the exit.
“Mr. Holt. If it’s okay, you know, just to ease my mind, let’s exchange some ID.” Martin had his ready and extended his hand to keep me facing him. I shifted my body so I could view the exit and reached for my back pocket. A few things happened simultaneously.
The Gunslinger’s Saloon door opened and Beard and Bald came through grinning as if it was their birthday. They stared at me with surprised expressions. Daniel pulled back his driver’s license and attempted to put it into a slot in his wallet. With both hands occupied, for a moment in time he was helpless. I spun and kicked his right k
neecap. He sucked in a quick breath as his eyes bulged. Letting out a tortured scream, he fell to the concrete. One down, two to go. I thought if I took out another, the third would quit or run.
Beard paused. He glanced in every direction before he moved again. Bald kept his confident grin and composure. Before his muscular build had turned to flab, he was probably used to getting his way. He came straight at me with a right and the intent of a knockout. He was a brawler, not a boxer. Sidestepping his tattooed arm, his punch sailed by my right shoulder. I stepped forward and stiff-arm punched his right kidney. Doubled over, he dropped to his knees, gasping in pain.
I glared at Beard.
“Uh…wait, man, I was just along for a beer,” he said, then lunged at me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the rush of a dark figure before everything went black.
Chapter 21
Crocker stared at the black sky.
He wasn’t sure of his plan. Houses were far apart, but climbing down the hill exposed him to anyone up and out past midnight. He didn’t know how many people were in the house. If he entered the house, he had no idea if the floors or stairs creaked, if a pet would announce his arrival or if the girls were awake. He hated the lack of information usually provided him and his target’s arbitrary movements. He liked the certainty of a routine. These girls didn’t have one.
Perhaps he was being overly cautious. The barn was ready and the graves dug. Still, he hesitated.
Fuck it. No guts, no glory.
Crocker trekked down the hill, avoiding stones and holes dug by animals. He glanced up and swore. A light, which was off, was now on.
When he reached the base of the hill, he sat and surveyed the back of the house. He used his camo hat to wipe sweat from his forehead. The woods were quiet except for the occasional rustling of dead leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Like other predators, night became his milieu, isolation and darkness his element. He sat in a semi-meditative state, feeling no emotion or empathy for the girls and what he was about to do. Crocker rose and inched toward the garage.
***
Karen Martin padded down the stairs trying not to wake Mary. Her head pounded like a sledgehammer on stone and she needed her migraine medication. She thought it would be in the usual place in the kitchen. It wasn’t. Nor was it in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she cringed at the person looking back at her with bloodshot eyes and puffy lids. The car. I took it when we went food shopping.
She opened the front door and stepped out. As she crossed the driveway to the car, Karen breathed in the scent of pine and listened to the night sounds. She panicked when she heard the ground crunch nearby and then remembered a pesky raccoon came nightly to scavenge through their trash. Karen retrieved her pills and returned to the kitchen, holding one hand to her forehead. She opened the refrigerator for a cold bottle of water and groaned, realizing they forgot to restock. Why is this happening? I hope there’s more in the garage.
***
Crocker peered through layers of dust and grime on the window at the side of the attached garage. Inside were stacks of boxes, tools, two bicycles, and a door leading into the house. He tugged on the lower half of the double hung window. It didn’t budge. Even if he took the time to cut the glass, unlock the window, and awkwardly climb through, there was no guarantee the door inside was unlocked. The low shrubs at the property line didn’t offer enough cover. Someone might see him from the street. Let’s call this “plan B.”
***
She heard a noise. Karen paused before entering the darkened garage. After a few moments of silence, she eased open the door. Her eyes widened at seeing a shadow pass the dirty window. She relaxed, realizing it was the shrubs outside that swayed with the evening breeze. Karen turned on the light and moved to the water stacked under the windowsill. She took an armful of bottles and headed back inside.
***
Crocker stood at the back of the house and smiled at his good fortune as he raised the unlocked window and listened. It was as quiet as an old widow’s home after the funeral. He opened it wider to accommodate his frame and pulled the top half of his body into a ground floor storage room. He shimmied in the rest of the way and rolled on the floor. Good, the door’s closed. He rose from a worn rug and leaned against a cardboard box. Drawing his pistol, he attached a silencer. Crocker crept across the room. He reached for the doorknob then recoiled when something thudded against the door.
***
What was that?
Karen sat on the sofa turning the pages of a magazine. She put it aside.
I can’t read or relax with this throbbing headache. Is Mary up?
She walked to the bottom of the stairs and listened, expecting her friend to come out of the bedroom. Karen waited, but the house fell quiet again. I’m going back to bed. She started to climb the stairs.
There it is again! A faint, soft movement came from somewhere in the house. Then stopped. She stepped down and returned to the hall. The silence of the cold house surrounded her and the isolation of the dark, narrow hallway made her shudder. She wasn’t sure she wanted to investigate or race back to her room. Karen heard a soft scratching and summoning her courage, inched toward the sound. She turned the corner.
Relief washed over her when she spotted the tabby in the hallway, pawing at a closed door. “Oliver, it’s you.” Karen picked up the cat. “What’s got you so curious?” She eased open the door. Flipping on the light, she peeked into the unused room. Odd pieces of furniture, boxes of books, and pieces of luggage stood against all the walls.
She entered and twisted slowly to scan around her. Everything looks the same. But then I haven’t been in here lately. She let the cat out of her arms. He skulked to the window and jumped up to the sill, concealing the two-inch opening.
“Don’t get comfortable, Oliver,” she said. The cat ignored her and settled in. “Okay, suit yourself. I’m going to bed.”
As she turned to leave, she thought she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. The closet door was ajar. She had to check inside. She would never be able to go back upstairs otherwise. With her heart thumping in her chest, she yanked open the door and let out a sharp, stilted scream as a box fell on her. She stumbled backwards, down onto the carpet. Karen stilled and waited for someone or something to emerge. After a few agonizing, silent seconds, she rose from the floor.
And froze, feeling something brush up against her back.
The cat meowed and slunk to the closet, his tail swinging back and forth in a hunting motion. He sniffed and scratched at the stacked boxes and lifted his tail forming a question mark. Karen knew it meant the cat did not sense any danger. Seeing and hearing nothing, Karen shook off her anxiety. She scooped up the cat into her arms.
“Silly cat, there’s no one there,” Karen said, more to herself than to Oliver. “I’m too worked up to go back to sleep. Let’s give Sam a call,” she said as she settled into a chair.
***
Sonofabitch. Crocker lay on the ground, back pressed against the house. Since one of the girls was awake, he had to reconsider his strategy. He listened through the window he’d left slightly open.
***
“Yes, Sam, everything is fine. I woke up with a migraine and took my medication. I began to hear noises and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I thought I’d wake you,” she said with a smile.
“I was thinking…maybe, you’d like to come over.” She stood up, dropping Oliver to the floor. “Mary is still asleep. No, you’ll sleep on the couch.” She really liked Sam, but it was not going to happen…yet. “Tomorrow? Mary and I are going camping. I’ll take her to our usual place off Moose Horn Trail.” Sam had found a secluded campsite off the beaten path, away from the main sites. “Okay. Five minutes. I’ll be waiting.” She hung up the phone, sighed, and returned to the living room couch. Karen wrote a short note to slip under Mary’s bedroom door telling her Sam would be downstairs. She left the bedroom and closed the door beh
ind her.
***
Crocker had a new plan.
Chapter 22
When the jackhammer in my head and the flashes in my eyes subsided, I felt the cold concrete floor on my back. Soft light flooded the small corrugated iron shed through the clear PVC above.
I checked my pockets. No wallet, gun, or burner phone. They didn’t find my cellphone strapped above my knee. My shirt pocket held a note. It was from Glick.
This is for the slashed tires. Stop looking for the girl or it’ll be worse next time.
The good news was the headache meant I wasn’t dead. The bad news was Glick had managed to slow me down. He was on my shit list, and I vowed to do something about it.
Rising slowly to my feet, my head tapped the roof. I waited for a wave of nausea to pass and then rattled the door and its frame, hearing a heavy padlock rock back and forth.
I squinted up at the roof in an effort to see while trying to block the light stabbing my eyes. Flat head roofing nails held it in place. The wind outside and occasional street traffic was all I could hear. I bent over, arced my arm, and rammed my fist into the corner of the roof. After slamming it five times, I pushed the loosened corner. Repeated pushing weakened two sides, and I could peek out.
There was a concrete wall with one boarded-up window and a door twenty feet away. A faded mural with red letters inside a blue oval read ‘Esso.’ I could smell gasoline and see cars pulling in front.
More pushing and the roof opened enough for me to climb up, squeeze out, and tumble to the dry, dusty ground. I spotted an alley leading to a side street and took it. I remembered the wide street with seedy, rundown storefronts. At the end of the block, I could see the Gunslinger’s Saloon. I ran in the opposite direction toward my rental truck.
