by John Moralee
“I called him,” Montana said, walking down the hall to join them at the door. Whenever Temple saw Montana in town, he felt a pulse of electric lust between them – a feeling never lessened with time. Even now at a moment of crisis he could not avoid the rush of attraction. Her reddish-brown hair flowed down to her shoulders like polished mahogany. It was thick and wild and brought memories of its cool brush against his skin. She was dressed in a blue cashmere jacket, white pants and boots. Her green eyes were wet. “I told him Brad’s missing.”
“Five hours is hardly missing,” Nelson said.
“He’s only ten years old.”
“I went hunting by myself when I was ten.”
“That was fifty years ago.”
“Forty years,” Nelson said.
“The world is more dangerous these days,” Montana said. “Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
“It is, unfortunately. Can I come in?” Temple asked. He wanted to interrupt the domestic argument before it exploded again.
Nelson nodded. The three of them walked into a massive living room with big oil paintings on the walls. Nelson was a millionaire with several oil fields in East Texas. He usually wore a grey suit as well as diamond-studded Stetson and alligator shoes, but at home he wore sweaters and Levi’s and looked pretty normal. From his expression Temple could see rage and worry twisting inside him like a jagged knife. A man like Nelson would never admit he was frightened by anything, but the disappearance of Brad was every parent’s greatest fear. Montana sat down on a large sofa while her husband poured himself a whiskey. There was a family picture opposite Temple of the Dolan family. It showed Nelson, Montana, their twelve-year old daughter Angela, and ten-year old Nelson Bradley Dolan Junior. In the picture they looked happy and radiant as they stood in the sunlight outside their stables. Angela had her father’s dark hair and mother’s green eyes, but Bradley had lighter hair and blue eyes. Temple recognised himself at that age. Anyone seeing the two of them aged ten lined up would think they were twins.
“Tell me what’s happened, please.”
“Sheriff,” Nelson said, “it’s quite simple - my Brad’s disappeared.”
“He should’ve been home hours ago,” Montana said.
“Montana is real worried. He’d never stay out this late. My boy wasn’t raised that way. We’ve told him to tell us if he’s going to be late.”
“Have you called his friends, sir?”
“I called Jimmy Ewan, his best friend,” Montana answered. “He said he hasn’t seen Brad after they left school this afternoon. Brad was riding his bike home on Richmond Avenue. That was at four o’clock. It takes only ten minutes to get here.”
“But he didn’t show up,” Nelson added.
It was 9 p.m. now. Five hours later. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“We would have,” Montana said, her voice cracking, “but we didn’t know he wasn’t home.”
“Nobody was here?”
“I was out at the oil fields,” Nelson said.
“I was shopping,” Montana mumbled.
“It’s not our fault,” Nelson said. “Our help was in the house – Martha and her husband Stephen - but neither noticed Brad hadn’t come home. The useless bastards. We only found out when we got back at eight.”
“I was horrified,” Montana said. “I should have come home earlier, but I never thought ...”
“Montana called me on my cell. I came home straight away. We’ve been calling his friends for the last hour. I even went driving along his route. Nothing. He might have gone to play at a friend’s house, but unless he had some friends I don’t know about … you see the situation.”
“I’d like a list of his friends. I also have a question. It’s not a nice question, but I’ve got to ask it. Is there any reason why he could have run away?”
“No,” Nelson said.
Temple could not read Montana’s expression, though he sensed she had things she could not say in front of her husband. For the moment she shook her head.
“He wasn’t angry or upset?”
Montana sighed. “He was happy this morning.”
“Okay. He’s never done this before?”
“Never,” she said.
“You haven’t seen anyone suspicious?”
“No.”
“Had any weird phone calls?”
“No!” Nelson shouted. “Look – we would tell you if we knew something.” Nelson paused, finishing his whiskey in a swallow. “Give me a straight answer. Do you think he could have been kidnapped?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“I’m a millionaire. Conclude.”
“There is a chance, yes.”
Montana put her hand to her mouth, sobbing behind it.
“What if it’s that maniac Ramirez?” Nelson rounded on him. “What are you going to do?”
“I doubt he’s out, considering the kind of trouble he was in. But I’ll check. I’ll also contact my deputies and have them canvass the streets. I’ll also talk to Brad’s friends in person. I’ll have a description of Brad distributed ASAP. I will find him.”
Montana walked with Temple to his sheriff’s cruiser.
“That thing you said about running away?”
“Uh-huh?”
“It could be what’s happened.”
“Why?”
“He could have learned you’re his real dad.”
“Is that possible?”
“He’s a bright boy. He could have figured it out. Maybe that’s why he’s disappeared?”
“Maybe,” he said.
And maybe it was a kidnapping.
Maybe Brad was dead.
“I’m scared, Temple. It’s like this is God’s punishment for what we did.”
God has nothing to do with this, he thought. “Kids do irrational things, Montana. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon enough.”
She nodded as though wanting to believe him.
He got in his cruiser and drove away. He switched on his radio and spoke to his best deputy, Al Greenberg.
“Al, I need a check on the whereabouts of Trey Ramirez. Is he out of prison? Contact me as soon as you find out something.”
*
Jimmy Ewan said the last time he’d seen Brad was on the corner of Strawberry Street and Richmond Avenue. Temple parked and walked up the street with his powerful flashlight sweeping the sidewalk and bushes. There was a tall picket fence behind some bushes running the length of the block and continuing onto the next block. He moved slowly, not wanting to miss anything. It took him twenty minutes to cover the block, then he moved on to the next. He’d gone 500 yards when something silver reflected by the fence. He could not see what it was for the bushes. He approached it from a side angle, pushing his way through the green leaves and whip-snapping branches. He shone light down on the silver object. It was a piece of smashed mirror. Looking down, he saw the spokes and wheel of a blue bike. The bike had been dumped behind the bushes.
Temple closed his eyes and felt the blood rushing into his body and a sickness in his stomach. It could be some other child’s bike, he thought. It could be someone else’s. Not that he believe it. Opening his eyes, he saw it again, the blue bike. Thrown over the bushes by someone evil.
He called his discovery in.
“Are you all right, Sheriff?”
“Just get some people here,” he barked. His mouth was dry and tasted bad. “Now.”
He was tempted to lift the bike from its position, but there was the danger of contaminating evidence.
Nothing would be touched until the area was sealed off.
But that didn’t stop him working while he waited.
Heartsick, he searched for the body he was sure he would find.
*
“Judy? It’s me.”
“Have you found him yet?”
“No. We’re looking, though. I found his bike. Looks like a kidnapping.”
“God, it must be terrible for his mom and dad.”
/>
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Temple?”
“Yes.”
“Everything okay?”
He wanted to tell her the truth. Perhaps if he’d been talking to Judy face to face he would have done it, but something stopped him. He could not betray Montana like that. She’d chosen to stay with her husband, and he had to respect that, despite his own desires.
“I’m tired, is all.”
“You sound it. When are you coming home?”
“I’m staying up until the FBI get here. I won’t be back tonight.”
*
“At least there’s no body yet. The kid could be alive.”
Temple wasn’t sure which deputy said that, but he prayed it was true. It certainly looked as though Brad had been kidnapped on his way home and his bike had been hidden in the bushes by the kidnapper.
But nobody had called the Dolans.
They’d agreed to a having their phones tapped.
Montana and Nelson were waiting for a call.
In a kidnapping the FBI had jurisdiction – but they could not get there until tomorrow morning, by which time Brad could be dead – if he wasn’t already. The FBI’s nearest field office was over a hundred miles away, so they could not help right now, when they were needed. At the moment the responsibility was all his. It was ten p.m. and so far he had no witnesses and no suspects. He was hoping some forensic evidence could be obtained from the bike, but that would take days to process. Days he did not have. Every minute mattered in a kidnapping.
Al Greenberg arrived in his cruiser. He was a big man in his early forties with a white crew-cut. He walked towards the crime scene with a long sheet of paper in his hands. “I’ve got bad news. Real bad news.”
“Spit it out.”
“Some guy’s been hanging out by the school. Brad’s friends have seen him three, four times over the last month.”
“Description?”
“5’9, muscular, black greasy hair, long sideburns, acne scars. Seen driving a grey van.”
Temple’s hands clenched. “That fits Trey Ramirez.”
“Yeah. I know. The guy hassled the Dolans.”
“More than hassled. He would’ve killed them if I hadn’t caught him. He got ten to fifteen at Angola for his crimes. Have you found out where he is, like I asked?”
“You’re not gonna believe it. Ramirez was released two months back. He’s been quietly living in our town. We should’ve been informed, but some jerk forgot to tell us. Freaking bureaucracy makes me sick. Anyway, his address is listed here. It’s the trailer park. We gonna pick him up?”
“Let’s go.” Temple ran to his car. He juiced up the gas and zoomed through the dark streets at twice the legal limit. Al Greenberg followed. Al wanted to get back up, but Temple said no. This was personal. He could feel the anger throbbing behind his eyes, his heart thudding. He speeded up until he was at least two blocks ahead of Al.
“Al,” he said into the radio, “I want you to look for the van. I’m checking out his trailer by myself – understand?”
“I don’t think going alone is wise.”
“Just do it.”
The trailer park was dark and quiet. Slowing to a silent crawl, he drove past rows of aluminium RVs looking like overturned beer cans. Trey Ramirez’s trailer was beside a heap of car parts and trash. The dirty metal shone in the moonlight. The windows were dark, the curtains closed. There was no grey van visible, which bothered him. Maybe Ramirez had skipped town with the boy. The boy? Not just a boy - his son. Not that Ramirez would know that. He would assume he was kidnapping Nelson’s son. His trailer looked like something dead that had clawed itself out of a grave – its walls were muddy and covered with obscene graffiti drawn by Ramirez. Temple parked a few trailers behind it and approached on foot, weapon out. He trudged through dried mud and foul-smelling pools of water. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a radio playing a song by Sheryl Crowe. He stopped at the side of the trailer. He was wearing Kevlar in case Ramirez was expecting him. But as he peered through a gap in the curtains, he wondered if he was too late. It looked empty. But then he saw a faint light – the glimmer of a small black and white television glowing in the dark. And then he saw a shadow moving. He ducked down and crept along to the door.
He would give Ramirez no warning.
Temple kicked the door and pushed his way inside. He stepped into darkness. There was a man in the bed watching TV. Ramirez. He opened his mouth when he saw Temple standing over him, a gun in his face.
“Move and you’re dead.”
“Hey, I ain’t moving. I ain’t done nothing.”
Temple hauled him out, dragging his half-naked body outside into the moonlight, where he cuffed him and pulled him towards his cruiser. He could smell beer and sweat. Temple shoved him in the back and slammed the door. He went back to the trailer but found nothing to tell him where Brad was. He returned to the car. Then he drove out of the trailer park and headed away from the populated area, turning off a road into nowhere.
“Remember me?”
“You were the deputy.”
“I’m the sheriff now. I took you down once. I’ll do it again the hard way unless you tell me where you’ve taken the boy.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I know you’ve been watching the boy. There are witnesses. That’s all the evidence I need. There’s no trial this time. The only way you are going to live until tomorrow is if you tell me where he is. Right now.”
“Where is who?”
“The boy.”
“What boy?”
“Nelson Dolan’s kid.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But his eyes looked down.
Ramirez knew who he was talking about.
Temple stopped the car. He turned off the engine.
“This is where you get out.”
There was nothing around. Just the stars overhead and miles away the lights of the town.
Ramirez’s eyes were big and white in the mirror.
Temple opened his door and walked to the rear. He pulled Ramirez out and told him to walk into the dark.
They stopped after a hundred yards. The road looked small from here. The ground was rocky and uneven and could not be seen from the road.
The perfect place to bury a corpse.
Temple undid the cuffs. Ramirez rubbed his wrists. “What’s this?”
“Get on your hands and knees and dig.”
“What?”
“Dig yourself a grave.”
“I ain’t doing that, man. Come on – what do you want?”
Temple punched him in the stomach. He doubled up and threw up and lay on his side, sucking in ragged breaths. Temple hit the sole of his foot with his night stick. He screamed.
“Dig,” he said. “Or talk.”
“I didn’t kidnap nobody.”
“Dig,” he said, kicking Ramirez in the knee.
Ramirez started digging, getting dirt under his fingernails, blood on his palms. “I swear I didn’t do nothing.”
“You were seen at the school.”
“Okay, okay! I was there. I did think about doing something like kidnapping the kid. I spent ten years inside for Dolan and I wanted him to pay me for it. But I couldn’t do it. My beef was always with Dolan. He’s the guy fired me. For ten years I wanted to get revenge, but when it came down to doing it, I couldn’t. In prison I had a long time to think. It wasn’t worth it. I have a job now. I want to live a real life.”
He was sobbing, his tears falling in the dirt.
“What did you do today?”
“I was working all day. I’ve got a job driving a forklift. Ask my boss.”
“What’s his name?”
“Steve. Steve Vanson.”
“What time did you finish?”
“Eight.”
“Liar. Where’s you van?”
“My van? It’s in a garage. There’s something wr
ong with the motor. It needs fixing.”
*
Deputy Danny Cooper was the only deputy in the sheriff’s office when Temple came in at 10.35. He was manning the radio, keeping the sixteen men under Temple’s command organised via a computerised map. The red dots on the map were the police cruisers. He did not say anything about the fact Temple had driven his cruiser out of signal range for fifteen minutes, but he did raise an eyebrow at what he brought in with him.
“What happened to him?” Cooper asked.
Temple was dragging the half-conscious Trey Ramirez through the doors of the sheriff’s office and towards the cells. The man was bleeding onto the blue floor. Temple said nothing until he had Ramirez locked up. Then he faced his deputy.
“He walked into a door, Danny.”
Cooper chuckled. “The door have fists, sir?”
“This is Trey Ramirez. I’m keeping him in lockup until his story’s checked. He says he was working all day, giving him an alibi if true. Always claims his van is getting repaired.”
“You think he’s the guy?”
“I’m not so sure now. We did some talking.”
“After he walked into the door?”
“Yeah.”
A light lit up on the computer display. Cooper pressed RECEIVE. Greenberg’s voice came through loud and clear. Temple answered.
*
Her name was Lydia and she would be 92 in August. She needed to talk to the sheriff, he had told Greenberg. Temple was now in her house with a drink of tea in his hands listening to her story.
That afternoon she’d been sitting on her porch petting her Scottish terrier when she saw a boy on a blue bike. She knew him because she watched out for him every afternoon. She watched him ride by her house at four o’clock. He kept pedalling down the street until he was out of sight.
That would not have been significant but her address was 560 Richmond Avenue – two blocks beyond where the bike was found. Unless she was mistaken, Brad had ridden past. Lydia had stayed on her porch until five before retiring for a short sleep. During that time she had not seen the boy come back. It was unlikely he had gone back – which meant someone else did, leaving his bike to be found afterwards.
