by Ritter, Todd
“They lost sight of him,” Tony said, even though Nick had already assumed that. Losing sight of a child was always the first chapter in an abduction story. “They said he was wearing a black snowsuit. Just like every other kid sledding that day.”
According to Tony, Noah’s grandparents got out of the car and looked for him. Others soon joined the hunt, including a park ranger. No one knew where he had gone because no one had been watching him. All they found was his sled, abandoned near the old gristmill.
“That evening,” Tony said, “several hours into the search, the park ranger took a snowmobile out onto the frozen lake. He discovered a hole in the ice about a quarter mile from shore. The immediate assumption was that Noah had fallen in and drowned.”
“End of story?” Nick asked.
“Not quite. The police started to question that theory when spring arrived, the lake thawed out, and no body appeared.”
Nick shook his head. Replace the lake with a waterfall and Tony could have been reciting the story of Charlie Olmstead’s disappearance.
“You mentioned his parents were going through a messy divorce,” he said. “Did the report say how messy?”
“No custody disputes, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It was exactly what Nick had been thinking. A staggering number of abductions in the United States were committed by parents locked in battles over custody. Some fled the country and made national headlines. Most were settled by the local police. In the case of Noah Pierce, it was a moot point.
“Both of his parents were in Florida at the time,” Tony said. “Friends, coworkers, and divorce attorneys all confirmed it.”
“And his grandparents?”
“They were clean. Other parents in the park testified to seeing both of them get out of the car with Noah, give him his sled and hot chocolate, then get back inside the vehicle. Neither of them left it until an hour later, when they realized they no longer knew where he was.”
“And they didn’t know anyone else in the park?” Nick asked.
“Nope.”
“Then the culprit was most likely a stranger. What did the police think?”
“The dipshits still concluded that he drowned.”
As much as he wanted to, Nick couldn’t entirely blame everything on the police. This was, after all, the work of a sicko with a thing for little boys and a keen interest in NASA’s landing schedule. Besides, America was a different place back then. In 1971, people still left their doors unlocked at night and trusted their neighbors. They didn’t warn first graders about stranger danger. Milk cartons didn’t yet carry the faces of the missing.
“So we’ve got a hillside full of kids and one stranger among them,” Nick said. “By the end of the day, there was one less kid and the stranger was gone.”
“How do you think he did it?”
Nick shoved the tip of his cane into the ground and pushed off the handle until he was standing again. He faced the hillside, Tony’s car parked at the top in the distance. “How far away do you think that is?”
Tony squinted and eyeballed the hill. “Two hundred yards. Maybe two fifty.”
“How old were Grandma and Grandpa?”
“According to the report, he was sixty-three. She was sixty.”
“Experts say vision starts to worsen around age sixty,” Nick said. “If it hasn’t already. So maybe one of them couldn’t see all that great to begin with. Add in all that blinding snow, all those kids running around in dark snowsuits.”
Tony caught on quickly. “They could have been watching the wrong kid for a while. And they probably didn’t see Noah leave with someone else.”
Nick knew that whoever took Noah Pierce didn’t just drag the boy kicking and screaming to his car. Even a blind grandparent would have noticed that. If they hadn’t, there sure as hell would have been several other parents who did.
“He had to be discreet,” Nick said. “He had to quietly and carefully lure the boy somewhere first. Maybe he told him he was a family friend.”
Early on, kidnappers had learned that kids didn’t trust strangers. But they did trust people their parents knew. If a stranger claims to be friends with a child’s parents, there’s a 50 percent chance that kid will go along with whatever he says.
“Sounds solid,” Tony said. “But where would he do this?”
Nick looked past the lieutenant to the dilapidated gristmill that sat at the lake’s edge. “The only place that was available.”
*
Up close, the mill looked like a stiff breeze could knock it over. A notice nailed to the wall said it had been condemned sometime during the Clinton administration. Giving them a third warning that they shouldn’t enter, the door had been padlocked.
Nick looked for other ports of entry but found nothing. There were no other doors and the only windows within reach were too small to squeeze through. Sitting over the lake, the mill’s stone foundation had wrought-iron grates on two sides that allowed water to pass under it. They couldn’t even swim beneath it and look for a way in from below.
“What do you think we should do?” Tony looked at Nick expectantly. “We’re breaking the law if we go in there.”
“We’re also investigating the disappearances of six kids,” Nick said. “I think that trumps trespassing.”
“What about vandalism?”
Tony nudged Nick out of the way, grabbed his sidearm, and shot the padlock twice. The first bullet heavily damaged it. The second obliterated what was left. Surprisingly, the mill remained standing. Perhaps that was a sign they should enter after all.
Newly freed, the door creaked open, allowing Nick to use the tip of his cane to clear most of the cobwebs that crisscrossed the frame like a safety net. Beyond the door was a dim room that reeked of mildew and bird shit. The floor was covered with withered leaves and long-lost feathers of former occupants. A set of stairs rose along the wall to a second level. In the far corner, a trapdoor had been built into the floor that opened to the water—the nineteenth-century equivalent of a trash chute.
“Looks dangerous,” Tony said. “Maybe I should go in first.”
“You shouldn’t go in at all,” Nick replied. Of the two of them, Tony was the one who needed to avoid stepping into rickety wooden structures. It would be like an elephant trying to cross a bridge made of toothpicks. “Besides, I’ve been in old mills before.”
When he took a step inside, the floorboards did more than creak under his weight—they screamed. Still, Nick moved forward, gingerly making his way into the center of the mill. Beneath his feet, wide gaps between the floorboards provided glimpses of the lake water just inches below. Above his head were large holes in the ceiling where the wood had rotted through. Beyond them, he could see the mill’s rafters and more holes in the roof.
Standing amid the squalor, Nick understood how the mill could appeal to a child. It was like the biggest, baddest play fort ever created, with the sky above and water below. Not to mention places to climb, nooks to explore, trouble to get into. It probably had taken zero effort to lure Noah Pierce inside.
“Is there anything interesting in there?” Tony called from the doorway.
“Interesting? Yes,” Nick said. “Helpful? No.”
He had reached the corner and was standing on the trapdoor in the floor, which had also been padlocked. It seemed slightly more sturdy than the mill’s floorboards, especially when Tony entered. His first step inside rattled the entire structure.
“Do you think this is where the boy was taken?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “I doubt we’ll ever know.”
Tony took another step. Just as it had with Nick, the floor beneath him screamed its displeasure. “You’re probably right,” he said.
“Then let’s get out of here. Maybe we’ll—”
Nick was going to say that maybe they’d have better luck at their next stop, but the splash he created cut him off. Actually, a yelp came just before the splash—a startled cry Nick mana
ged to croak out just before his fall. A fraction of a second before his cry had been the groan of unstable wood under pressure and a sharp crack as the trapdoor he was standing on split in two.
The water overtook him immediately. There was no in-between stage, no slow progression into the drink. One second he was dry. The next he was engulfed.
The water was colder than he expected. Deeper, too. As he touched bottom, Nick put his hands over his head, hoping they would break the surface and he could gauge the depth. No such luck. That meant the water was at least seven feet deep. Most likely more.
On two sides of him were the grates built into the mill’s foundation, preventing easy escape. The upside was that they let in much-needed light. Nick saw slick tentacles of weed reaching upward. A rock sat next to his foot, round and covered with algae. A few feet above him was the surface and, beyond that, the floor of the mill.
Pushing off with his good leg, he rose quickly to the top but to the left of where he wanted to be. When he tried to break the surface, he was stopped by the floor above him. He hit it with full force, his skull slamming against the wood and knocking what little air he had left out of him.
A tightness had formed in his chest by the time he sank to the bottom again. It only got worse as he pushed off a second time and rose upward. This time he shoved his hands in front of him, bracing for impact. When his palms felt rough wood, he eased his face closer to the underside of the floor.
There was about six inches between the floor and the water—just enough room for his face to breach the surface and allow him to take a desperately needed breath. Gasping for air, he peered through a crack in the floorboards. Tony was on the other side, lying on his stomach and peering right back at him.
“Donnelly? You okay?”
“I think so.”
Think was the key word. Nick had no idea if he was okay or not. The suddenness of his plunge and the chill of the water had left his whole body numb. He couldn’t even feel the pain in his right knee. But the numbness didn’t make his bum leg work any better, and soon he felt himself being dragged back under by his waterlogged clothes.
Nick fought against the pull, paddling as best he could in such tight quarters. It was useless. He managed one more gasping breath before slipping under again. Above him, he heard Tony crawling across the floor, the water distorting the sound. It only added to the disorientation he felt beneath the surface. The floor was above him instead of below. He didn’t know which way was right or left. Then there was the tightness in his chest, which his few gulps of air had only seemed to make worse.
He soon found himself at the bottom again, ass planted firmly in the muck of the lake’s bottom. When he tried to push toward the surface, the weeds wrapped around his wrists and grabbed at his ankles. Nick thrashed his arms. He kicked his legs.
All that work did was to twist him around until somehow he was on his side, shoulder being sucked into the mud. The undulating weeds pushed into his face, brushing against his cheeks and covering his nose. He pushed it out of the way, seeing the rock he had first landed next to. His hand knocked against it, the rock rising slightly and spinning with impossible ease. It settled into the mud again, a different side of it facing Nick.
That side had two rounded holes in the center. Slightly beneath them was another hole. Below that, studding its bottom, was a row of teeth.
Nick was staring at a skull.
Fighting the weed, Nick glimpsed the bottom half of the skull. It had detached and sat half buried in the mud. Nearby, he saw three ribs arch out of the muck. Next to it was a skeletal hand, weed growing between its fingers.
Nick felt another hand press against his chest. But this one was alive, attached to a muscular arm that wrapped around him and yanked him upward.
Tony Vasquez had jumped in and was pulling Nick to safety. As they neared the surface, Tony got behind him and shoved. Up ahead, Nick saw the square hole in the floor he had fallen through. Propelled by Tony, he reached it quickly, grabbing the trapdoor’s frame and pulling himself out. Tony soon followed, breaking through the water and doing the same.
Inside the mill, both men lay side by side on their backs, legs still dangling beneath the surface. They breathed heavily, their chests rising and falling in unison. As soon as he was able to, Nick spoke.
“There’s a skeleton down there.”
Tony sat up, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. And I’m pretty sure it once belonged to Noah Pierce.”
SEVENTEEN
Kat parked outside the elementary school, early for once. Checking her watch, she saw she had fifteen minutes until the bell rang. Plenty of time to sit back and think without interruption about the Olmstead case. She turned on the radio, mostly for a little background noise, and was greeted by a news report.
“So far so good for China’s three astronauts,” a female newscaster said in a rushed voice that was apparently mandatory for radio personalities. “Officials from NASA who are advising the Chinese space mission say the second day of spaceflight is going smoothly. While there’s no firm time yet for a lunar landing, reports from China’s state-run television said it could be as early as Friday afternoon.”
Kat changed the station, replacing the news with some eighties music that Nick would have found repulsive. She didn’t want to hear about the astronauts’ steady progress to the moon. All it did was remind her that her own progress was at a virtual standstill. It also made her regret scheduling the exhumation of Charlie’s grave until that night.
At the time, she had thought she was making a wise decision. Carl Bauersox would be on the clock by then and would be able to help with the task. Also, darkness would most likely keep away curious onlookers wondering just what the chief and her deputy were digging up in Oak Knoll Cemetery.
Kat, of course, didn’t know what she would unearth in a few hours. She hoped it would be something useful. She needed all the help she could get. There was always the possibility that Nick had found something, although Kat assumed his road trip wasn’t going well, either. She tried to call him twice that afternoon, but he never answered his phone. The last she heard from him was that morning, when she received a typically profane text message: TONY IS HERE! FUCK!
She whipped out her cell phone and was in the process of calling Nick a third time when someone tapped on her window. It was Jocelyn Miller, the principal of Perry Hollow Elementary. A wisp of a woman in a gray pantsuit, she motioned for Kat to roll down her window.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief. But I need a word.”
As chief, Kat was often asked to speak to students about safety, obeying the law, and the importance of community police. In rare instances, she was even brought in to scare the crap out of a misbehaving kid who hadn’t been fazed by detention. Then there was the annual assembly about avoiding predators and never trusting strangers. For the next talk, Kat considered bringing in Maggie Olmstead’s collection of newspaper clippings to use as a visual aid. If that didn’t get through to the kids, nothing would.
“No bother at all,” Kat said. “Is it assembly time again?”
“Actually, it’s about James. I know he went through a lot last October.”
“He did,” Kat replied. “But his therapist says he’s doing well.”
“That’s fantastic news.”
The principal didn’t sound like she meant it. Her half-sincere tone made Kat sit up and flick off the radio. “Is something wrong?”
“Maybe,” Jocelyn admitted. “Has he been acting differently at home?”
The question required no thought. James was definitely acting strangely. He was quiet. More subdued. And then there was the missing lunch box from yesterday and the lunch he had so casually trashed that morning.
“He has,” Kat said. “I noticed it ever since school started. Is he acting differently here?”
“I haven’t witnessed anything. Neither have his teachers. But we think he might be having problems.”
“What kind
of problems?”
“With a classmate,” Jocelyn said. “More specifically, bullying.”
Kat kept a straight face. She needed to. But, inside, it felt like her heart was sinking into the depths of her stomach. Ever since James entered first grade, she knew the possibility existed that it could happen. She feared, expected, and doubted it all at the same time. But now the principal was confirming what she suspected: her son was being bullied.
“Who’s the classmate?”
Jocelyn shook her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“If I know who it is, I can talk to him and his family. Maybe bring a stop to it. I am the police chief, after all.”
“Which is exactly why I can’t tell you.”
Jocelyn’s message was clear from her body language—hands clasped primly in front of her. She didn’t want Kat driving to this kid’s house and cuffing him until he promised not to pick on her son. It was exactly what Kat wanted to do.
“Can you at least tell me what happened?”
“Neither boy is talking,” Jocelyn said, “so we don’t know the full situation. Something to do with stolen lunches.”
That cleared up why James had thrown his lunch away before entering the school that morning. It was a preventative measure—destroying the lunch before it could be stolen. Kat now knew with certainty that James was lying when he said he had lost his lunch box the day before. In reality, it had been taken from him, most likely because fifth-graders didn’t use lunch boxes. Yet Kat had insisted he take it to school with him. Knowing she had played a role, however small, in the whole thing made her tremble with guilt.
“What should I do?”
“Talk to him,” Jocelyn said. “See if he’ll open up to you. Many kids going through things like this want to talk about it. It helps to get it off their chests. But they’re also too embarrassed and afraid to broach the subject. That means you need to bring it up.”
