by Ritter, Todd
But the reaction he was most looking forward to was Eric Olmstead’s. As they stepped onto the front porch, he felt a pang of envy. Eric was about to meet the sibling he thought had died decades ago. It was something Nick often fantasized about. How would he react if he found out his sister was still alive? How would Sarah look? Eric, the lucky bastard, was about to experience something straight out of Nick’s dreams.
They entered the house just as Kat was storming down the stairs. Eric was behind her, trying to keep up. Nick stepped out of the way, revealing Charlie standing in the doorway.
“Surprise,” he said.
*
Kat watched the reunion from a discreet distance. Nick was by her side. Both knew enough to stay out of the way and let Eric and Charlie get reacquainted. It didn’t matter that they weren’t related by blood. Nor did it matter that their separation most likely came at the hands of Ken Olmstead. The important thing was that, after forty-two years, they were together once again.
At first, Eric didn’t know how to act. He took an awkward step forward, jaw dropped in disbelief. When he held out his hand, Charlie shook it. Then he tugged Eric close, wrapping him in a strong embrace.
“I thought you were dead,” Eric said. “We all did.”
Charlie released him reluctantly. “I’m here now.”
Then, as they moved into the living room, both men began to cry. Kat felt tears of her own pooling in the corners of her eyes and threatening to overflow. When one slipped down her cheek, she swiped it away. There was no time for tears.
“We have to catch Eric’s dad,” she whispered to Nick. “He just left.”
“Was he in a black truck?”
“Yes,” Kat said. “Also known as his getaway car.”
“Is he mixed up in all of this somehow?”
Maybe, Kat told him. Maybe not. She didn’t know. But the fact that Charlie was alive and well when five other boys weren’t made her think Craig Brewster wasn’t responsible for the other abductions.
“What if the other boys were taken not by Craig but by someone looking for Charlie?”
“Like Ken Olmstead?” Nick said.
“Exactly. We need to track him down and find out just what kind of role he played in all of this.”
As they rushed to the door, Kat peeked into the living room. Eric and Charlie sat on the couch, silly grins slapped on their faces. They had a lot of catching up to do. A lifetime’s worth. They wouldn’t miss her and Nick.
“We should take two cars,” she told Nick once they were outside. “It’ll double our chances of catching Ken.”
Nick was already halfway to his, cane thudding on the grass. “He turned right. Probably heading toward Old Mill Road on his way out of town.”
He climbed into his car and pulled out of the driveway. Then, tires squealing, he took off down the street.
Kat reached the Crown Vic, intending to do the same. She slid behind the wheel, keys at the ready. She was about to start the car when she noticed the passenger seat. It was empty. An iPod sat in the middle of the seat, a pair of white earbuds tangled next to it. On the floor was a backpack. But the boy who owned them was nowhere to be seen.
James was gone.
THIRTY-THREE
Kat got out of the car, slowly at first, more annoyed than concerned. She had told James to stay in the Crown Vic. Demanded it, in fact. And as she edged into the center of the street, she felt a too-familiar sense of anger wash over her. Now he was in even more trouble.
Scanning the street for places where he could be, Kat knew he couldn’t have gone far. It was only a cul-de-sac—four houses clustered together in a forgotten corner of town. And anywhere near Eric’s place could already be ruled out. If James had been there, in the yard, say, or on the back porch, she would have noticed.
“James?”
She thought about checking the path that led to Sunset Falls and immediately dismissed the idea. It was too covered with brush and foliage to catch his attention. The same could be said for the yard of Mort and Ruth Clark’s old house. The bomb shelter hidden beneath it would be irresistible to a kid his age—if he knew it was there. And James most definitely did not.
That left the Santangelo residence and Glenn Stewart’s house as the only two places he could be. Kat headed toward the Santangelos’ place, simply because it was the least forbidding of the two.
Crossing the street, she called his name again. “James?”
She said it calmly, without panic. There was no need for panic. Yet.
But the lack of a response concerned her. James was the type of boy who would call back if he heard his name. No matter how mad he was. No matter how surly he was feeling.
“Little Bear?”
Kat said it louder this time, with a tinge of worry she hoped James would pick up on when he heard her. If he heard her.
She thought of Maggie Olmstead and the mothers of the other missing boys. How long did it take them to get worried? When did they realize something was amiss? If her feelings were any indication, then the answer was soon. James hadn’t even been gone five minutes and already she was buzzing with anxiety.
By that time, she was at the edge of Lee and Becky Santangelo’s vast yard, crossing it as the grass whispered between her feet. Once on the porch, she realized her hand was trembling as she rapped on the door. She shoved both hands in her pockets and turned back to the lawn.
Waiting for Becky to come to the door, she pictured a much younger Burt Hammond mowing the lawn. Then she imagined Lee Santangelo inside, watching, thinking of ways to get him inside. Once he did, he grabbed the camera.
The resulting tawdry home movie wasn’t illegal—Burt was old enough, Kat knew, but still awfully young—yet it made her think about other young men he might have invited into his bed.
As Becky opened the door, it occurred to Kat that the Santangelos’ film only served as an alibi for the night Charlie Olmstead disappeared. Lee’s whereabouts when the other boys vanished were still unknown. Kat knew he had been to Camp Crescent and Centralia. Most likely Fairmount, too. There was a chance—slim, yes, but a chance nonetheless—that he had something to do with the others’ disappearance.
“Can I help you, Chief?” Becky asked.
“Have you seen a little boy? He’s ten. Big for his age.”
Kat looked past her into the house, scanning the dim hallway for signs of her son. She knew Lee was no longer capable of grabbing a boy off the street. But his wife was. Becky with her brittle manners and refusal to show her age. Maybe she had seen James on the street and lured him inside, perhaps with the cookies that Charlie Olmstead had loved so much. And once James was inside—
She was being paranoid. Becky Santangelo had nothing to do with James, just as she had nothing to do with those other missing boys. If she or Lee had been guilty, they wouldn’t have displayed framed photos of the locations of their crimes. And Becky wouldn’t have answered the door now.
“Today?” she said. “I haven’t seen a boy on this street since Eric Olmstead left town.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Have you checked Glenn Stewart’s place? Your son probably isn’t there, but stranger things have happened.”
Her words set off alarm bells in Kat’s brain. Clanging off the insides of her skull, they reawakened all the things she had forgotten during the craziness of the day. Things like Norm Harper talking about Glenn Stewart’s religious conversion in Vietnam and Professor Luther Reid explaining mặt trăng vinh quang. All those words with sinister meanings. Glorious enlightenment. Human sacrifice.
Bad moon.
“I need to go,” Kat said. “If you see my son, please tell him I’m looking for him. And that I’m worried.”
The sound of her voice appalled her. Accented with a noticeable quaver, it was the voice of a woman far more stressed than she thought she was. This wasn’t mere worry, Kat realized.
It was panic. And it was fully taking over.
*
Since Ken Olmstead also knew Perry Hollow, Nick assumed that was the route he took. But time, not to mention distance, was running out. Five miles ahead, Old Mill Road ended, turning into Route 58. A mile beyond that was the interstate. If Ken Olmstead hit the open highway, Nick would never be able to catch up with him.
Following the rig’s presumed path, he tried to calculate what kind of a head start it had and how fast he’d need to go to catch up. Nick sucked at math. But he was good at driving. You didn’t need to think when driving. You just needed to pound the gas pedal and go.
That’s exactly what he did. By the time he reached Old Mill Road, he was going seventy. A mile later, he was topping seventy-five. He glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping to see Kat’s car. It wasn’t there. He was on his own.
On his left, Lake Squall passed in a watery blur. Then it was through the fields, where the road was a flat straightaway. He didn’t encounter many vehicles, just a rust bucket of a truck that he easily passed.
The speedometer hit eighty as he crossed the border between Perry Hollow and Mercerville. Signaling his arrival was a large sign next to the road that welcomed him to town. Nick grimaced at the sight, only because it meant he was getting closer to the interstate.
And that Ken Olmstead was closer still.
Just beyond the sign, the road rose sharply, making its way over a small hill. Halfway up the incline was a Cadillac, as wide as a barge and just as slow. Nick was behind it instantly, tailgating the vehicle in the hope it would go a little faster. When it didn’t, Nick knew he needed to pass it as fast as possible.
He veered left into the opposing lane, the crest of the hill looming ahead of him. About a hundred yards from the top, he was side by side with the Caddy. Fifty yards from the top, he had pulled ahead, his rear tires parallel with the Cadillac’s front ones. Soon he was cresting the hill. The road, previously in front of him, suddenly dropped away, revealing an expanse of sky and the valley below.
There was also a tanker truck. Rolling over the hill in the opposite direction, it was coming right at Nick.
He jerked the steering wheel to the right, cutting off the Cadillac. In the rearview mirror, he saw its driver slam on the brakes. The Caddy fishtailed onto the side of the road, kicking up a cloud of gravel. The tanker roared past at the same time, blasting its horn.
When the horn died out, it was replaced by another sound rising from the bottom of the hill. The noise—the guttural grinding of an engine trying to get up to speed after switching gears—was the same one Nick had heard in the car with Charlie. In the distance, where the road flattened out again, was a black rig with orange flames airbrushed across its side.
Nick had located Ken Olmstead.
*
Kat jumped off the Santangelos’ porch and ran across the yard, the bad thoughts continuing to crowd her brain. She thought of the faces on Maggie Olmstead’s plywood board. All those smiling boys who vanished without a trace. She recalled the photo Professor Reid e-mailed her. It showed a boy—one James’s age, she couldn’t forget—killed to appease the moon god. It was crazy that anyone anywhere could do such a thing. Crazier still was the possibility that someone from her town could be capable of such deeds.
But insane people existed, she knew. Including people in Perry Hollow. And a poll of the townsfolk would likely conclude that there was no one more strange than Glenn Stewart.
Once on the street, Kat shouted James’s name again. It was a last-ditch attempt to get him to appear. There was still a chance he had wandered off on his own. Still the possibility that this was all a ruse to punish her for grounding him.
But she doubted it, especially when James again failed to appear. He had been taken. Just like the other boys had been taken. But instead of Craig Brewster, Charlie Olmstead’s captor, Kat was certain this was the work of Mr. Stewart.
Approaching his house, she peeked into the backyard. The rickety car port was there, doing a bad job of shielding the elements from the Volkswagen van parked beneath it. The van should have been the first sign that Glenn wasn’t entirely homebound. He might not drive it anymore, but once upon a time he did—steering it all the way to Fairmount and Centralia and the deep woods where Camp Crescent was located.
Kat pictured him behind the wheel, opening the door to invite unsuspecting boys inside. Dennis Kepner and Dwight Halsey. Frankie Pulaski and Bucky Mason. According to Nick, Noah Pierce had been killed on the spot, his body dropped into a watery grave beneath an abandoned gristmill. They had all been taken for one reason—the glorious moon that Glenn seemed to revere.
When Kat reached his house, she ran onto the front porch, unholstering her Glock as she moved.
Then she heard the shrieks.
There were two of them, high-pitched and loud, coming from the other side of the door. Kat’s heart raced at the sound. She recognized them. More chilling, she knew who was making them.
It was James.
Quaking with fear, Kat tried the front door. It was unlocked, thank God. Without wasting a second, she twisted the handle, calling for James.
Then, Glock at the ready, she burst inside.
*
Nick’s left foot squeezed the gas pedal against the floor. His right trembled with anticipation. He was getting closer.
In the distance, the rig also picked up speed. Even from a half mile away, he heard the groan of the engine. Like Nick, Ken Olmstead was trying to drive as fast as possible.
The truck blew past a sign on the side of the road. Thirty seconds later, Nick did the same thing. It was a blue and red highway sign, telling him the interstate was up ahead. Nick guessed it was now two miles away. Maybe even less.
Looking toward the road again, he saw he was gaining on the truck, slowly but surely. Once a half mile apart, he was now a quarter mile behind the rig and gaining. But Nick knew it might not be enough. Once the truck got to the interstate, there’d be more traffic to deal with and the chances of actually getting Ken to stop would drop dramatically. If he was going to halt the rig, it had to be in the next minute or so.
He flicked on the headlights, flashing them in the hope Ken would see them and stop. When that didn’t work, he honked the horn, slamming the heel of his hand until there was a steady blare.
Up ahead, the rig grew closer. Nick was right on its tail. He muttered at it through gritted teeth. “Stop, you motherfucker. Why don’t you stop?”
He knew the answer. The interstate was right ahead. Nick could see the overpass up ahead as the highway crossed the road. Just before that, the entrance ramp veered right, sweeping upward to meet it.
An orange light flared in the back of Ken Olmstead’s truck. It was the turn signal, blinking steadily as the truck edged toward the entrance ramp.
Gripping the wheel to steady himself and the car, Nick lifted himself up from the seat until he was standing on the gas pedal. The car jerked forward, engine revving in protest. He ignored the sound, swerving to the right. He hit a rumble strip on the road’s shoulder, tires buzzing, car vibrating. Then he was off the road, bouncing through weeds with the rig right next to him.
Nick blasted the horn again. The orange flames on the side of the rig were about six inches from his window. Then they receded a bit, falling behind until they were parallel with his back windows.
He was passing the rig.
With a grunt and one last stomp on the gas, Nick pulled ahead of the truck. He veered back onto the entrance ramp, the rig’s grille perilously close to his rear bumper. Up ahead, the ramp flattened out, connecting with the highway. It was his last chance to stop the truc
k.
Nick slammed on the brakes. His tires squealed along the road as momentum propelled the car forward. When his front wheels gripped the road, the back ones kept going, screeching along the asphalt. Nick felt his seat belt tighten across his chest, pinning him back down to the seat as the car rotated.
It came to a stop in the middle of the ramp, perpendicular to the road. To his left, the approaching rig also slammed on its brakes. The engine, going so fast for so long, shuddered at the sudden deceleration. The truck followed suit, swerving back and forth unsteadily.
Nick slid across the front seat, banging his right knee on the steering column. The pain that shot through his entire body made him want to stop. But he couldn’t stop. The truck, brakes screaming, was just outside the window, getting closer, closer, closer. He scrambled into the passenger seat, lunging for the door handle.
He tugged on it and the door flew open. Nick slithered out of the car, hoping he could roll away from the inevitable impact.
It never happened.
Lying on the ground, he looked to his car. It was still in one piece. Sitting up, he saw the truck on the other side of it. It had come to a stop inches away. Somehow, a collision had been avoided.
That didn’t make Ken Olmstead any less pissed off. Hopping out of the rig, he marched around Nick’s car, shouting, “What the hell are you doing? I could have goddamn killed you and myself in the process.”
Nick climbed to his feet. It was hard without the cane, which was still inside his car, but he managed. Standing with his weight on one leg, he faced Ken Olmstead.
“I’m Nick Donnelly.”
Ken gave him a blank stare. “So?”
“I was hired to find Charlie,” he said. “And I did.”
THIRTY-FOUR
