by James Hunt
It was the reason Grant had driven here last night. He wanted to see how he would feel, what kind of spark he could ignite. But he felt nothing. He no longer saw the ghosts of a fictional future. He only saw four walls and a roof. He had the confirmation he was scared to admit. He finally wanted more than just what could have been.
The car sputtered when Grant turned the engine, and it took three tries before it finally caught. He made a mental note to get it looked at when he got back to Deville. He should have scrapped the old heap months ago. It seemed it was time for a lot of new things.
Traffic out of Seattle was light, and while he kept his attention on the road, his eyes continued to flick toward the cases in the passenger seat. The cold cases that Mocks gave him were his main source of income. But more importantly, they were his one connection to a profession that he missed.
The highway faded into a two-lane road that pushed him through Deville’s version of a Main Street, which was little more than a string of buildings that acted as their downtown.
Grant turned onto Oak Lane, and the paved road dissolved into gravel, the ride immediately bumpier as his worn shocks bounced him around in his seat. And as he approached his house, he noticed red and blue lights up ahead. He squinted, the brakes squealing until he came to a stop.
The next house down belonged to the Dunnys. And the number of squad cars he saw parked out front didn’t bode well for his neighbors.
Grant let off the brake and drove down, parking behind a sheriff’s deputy off to the side, spotting both Barry and Jane out front, speaking to one of the officers, who scribbled their statement onto a small notepad.
When Grant stepped out of the car, one of the deputies approached, hand out in front of him. “Sir, you can’t be here right now.” The early morning sun reflected off of the deputy’s bald head, and Grant saw his reflection in the deputy’s dark glasses.
“Oh, Grant!” Jane pressed her hands against her cheeks, hurrying past the deputy and taking hold of Grant’s hand. “Grant, it’s terrible, just terrible!”
“What happened?” Grant asked.
Jane pointed back toward the house as Barry finished speaking with one of the deputies. “They’re gone! Mary, Charles, Anna, they’ve disappeared!”
“We don’t know what happened,” the deputy said, trying to calm Jane down.
“Well, then what are you standing here for?” Jane smacked the deputy’s arm, her hysteria funneling into anger. “Why aren’t you out there looking for them?”
“Ma’am, you need to calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Jane stomped her foot and yanked her arm away from the deputy’s hand. “There was blood inside! Blood!”
Grant placed his hand on Jane’s shoulder. “I’m sure everything is fine.” Though the words felt forced. Grant could see the yellow crime-scene tape crossed over the door, and with the talk of blood and the number of deputies crawling around the place, the events that transpired here must have been violent. He turned to the deputy. “Do you have forensics on site?”
The deputy paused, glaring at Grant. “And who are you? Sir?”
“I’m the Dunnys’ neighbor,” Grant answered.
“And what did you hear last night?”
“I was in Seattle.”
“And there are people to corroborate that story?”
“Oh, stop it, Timothy.” Jane slapped the officer’s shoulder. “Grant is as guilty as I am. Don’t make me call your father.” She wagged her finger in the deputy’s face to hammer home her threat.
“Jane!” Barry hobbled over and gave Grant a handshake as he tried to catch his breath. “The deputies need the rental records.”
“Now?” Jane asked.
“That’s what they said.”
Jane huffed and flapped her arms at her sides. “Fine.” She smiled at Grant, giving his arm a squeeze. “Good to see you, sweetheart.” She led the deputy down the road toward their office, but her husband lingered behind.
“How are you holding up?” Grant asked.
Barry shook his head. “Not sure. I’ve never seen anything like this happen here.” He grunted in disbelief. “In fact, I don’t think anything like this has ever happened in the history of this town.” He ran his liver-spotted hands over the matching spots on the top of his head.
Grant nodded in agreement. In the two years since he’d lived here, Grant had never seen anything more than a broken window from a few middle-school kids. Crime was practically unheard of in the area.
“Listen, um, Grant.” Barry scratched the back of his head, avoiding eye contact. “I know this might seem like an odd time to bring it up, but you wouldn’t happen to have that rent money yet, would you?”
“I just got a couple of cases,” Grant answered. “Shouldn’t be long.” They had let him skirt the past two months, but everyone had their limits with patience.
“Yeah, it’s just with this happening to the Dunnys…” Barry gave a little shrug and then finally worked up the courage to look Grant in the eye. “I just don’t know what this will mean for our properties. Things can get a little tight when authorities are involved. If you could come up with the money sooner rather than later, it would put my mind at ease.”
“Of course.” Grant nodded. “I’ll get something to you before the end of the week.”
Barry exhaled. “Thanks, I really appreciate it. Listen, I need to go help Jane. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah, talk to you later.” Grant exhaled, watching Barry disappear down the road.
Grant’s savings had run dry months ago, and while he was paid for his “consulting” work on the cold cases, it wasn’t steady enough to provide a livable income. And Deville wasn’t exactly teeming with jobs.
“Sir?” Deputy Timothy asked. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Right,” Grant answered, smiling politely. “I’ll let you guys get to it.” But as he walked back to his car and drove back down to his house, he couldn’t keep his eyes from looking in the rearview mirror.
Once in the driveway, the rusted Buick groaned its thanks for being shut off. He removed his bag from the backseat, making sure to grab the cold-case files, then walked toward his front door, the red and blue lights still flashing in his peripheral.
One flick of a light switch, and the dark interior was illuminated in a dreary yellow hue by the light in the overhead fan. The living room was bare save for the desk, a single lounge chair, and a coffee table. There was a TV, but it wasn’t hooked up to cable, though he did have an internet connection. That was unavoidable these days.
On his walk to his bedroom, Grant passed bare walls, devoid of any decoration or signs of life. But Grant had never bothered to put anything up because he didn’t think he’d be staying here for as long as he had. He’d thought he’d eventually keep migrating east. But the little town of Deville was as far as his mind was able to push him. And despite all he was able to work through here, there was a part of him that still ached to be back in Seattle.
Grant tossed the suitcase and the case files on his unmade bed, making a mental note to try and remember to wash his sheets. He unzipped the suitcase, when he heard a whimper come from his closet.
His hand swiped instinctively for the pistol that would have been at his shoulder holster if he were still a detective, and then he froze as he listened to what sounded like lips being licked, and then the faint panting of breaths.
Grant opened the top dresser drawer that hid the revolver amongst his socks on his slow walk toward the closet. He cocked the hammer back then aimed for the closet door, his hand steady. The panting inside the closet intensified, and Grant slowly reached for the doorknob, pausing for a second once his fingers touched the wood, then ripped it open in one swift, clean motion.
A black-and-white border collie whimpered, slowly poking his head out from the closet, sniffing at the air around Grant, blocking a little girl from view.
Grant immediately lowered the pis
tol and dropped to a knee as Bandit licked Grant’s face. “All right, boy. All right.” He reached past the dog and lifted the little girl from the back of the closet. She was cold and shivering, her pajamas stained with dirt. “Are you hurt?”
The girl remained quiet as Grant set her on the bed. Bandit hopped up next to her, and Grant placed the revolver back in the drawer, emptying the bullets before he did so, and then reached for his cell phone.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” an operator asked.
“My name is Chase Grant, and I’m at Fourteen Oak Lane. Tell the authorities that I’ve found Anna Dunny.”
Grant only half listened to the deputy in his living room, asking him questions about his relationship with the Dunnys, how they knew him, the last time he was in contact with them—all of the standard questioning that law enforcement would ask. He kept his attention on the ambulance where they’d placed Anna Dunny. They were checking her vitals, giving her an IV, all precautionary steps. The girl had no visible injuries, but he was sure they’d do some scans and x-rays at the hospital.
“Mr. Grant?” the deputy asked.
“Huh?”
“I asked you how long you’ve known the Dunnys?”
“They moved here about six months ago,” Grant answered. “So for about that long.”
“And did you notice any strange activity from them lately?”
Grant shook his head. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”
The deputy dropped his eyes to his notepad, jotting down his shorthand, and Grant returned his gaze to the ambulance.
“Is there any other family in the area?” Grant asked. “To help take care of Anna?”
“We don’t have any next of kin listed,” the deputy answered. “But we have someone from DCF coming down to take care of her until we can get all of this sorted out.”
“DCF?” Grant whipped his head toward the deputy. “You’re putting her with a social worker? You put her in that system, and she’ll get lost in it.”
“Sir, we have everything under control.” The deputy held up his hand and put the notepad away. He was middle aged, slightly older than Grant, and he squinted at him, cocking his head to the side. “Do I know you from someplace?”
“I doubt it,” Grant answered, looking back toward Anna. “What about the dog?”
“We’ll call animal control once the DCF liaison arrives,” the deputy answered.
“I’ll take care of him,” Grant said, turning back to the deputy. “It’ll save you some paperwork, and it’ll be easier for the family to get the dog back once you find them.” It took every ounce of willpower for Grant to say once instead of if, because he knew the odds. Once a missing-persons case passed the twelve-hour mark from time of abduction, the chances of a successful retrieval dropped by half. And he didn’t expect much from the Andy Griffith Show character standing in front of him.
“Yeah,” the deputy said, nodding to himself. “I don’t see the harm in that. Hey, Deetz! C’mon. Dog’s staying here.”
The partner brought the dog back inside, struggling to keep him still as Bandit jumped and barked toward the ambulance. Grant took hold of the animal, and he calmed a little bit.
“If you remember anything else, give us a call.” The deputy handed Grant his card, and the ambulance drove off, the deputies not far behind.
Grant watched them leave and didn’t shut the door until the dust from the road settled. Then he pulled Bandit back inside and shut the door.
4
The cold-case files were spread out across the desk, the yellow light of the desk lamp revealing a story of dead-end leads, lack of evidence, and some gross negligence by the lead detectives, but Grant knew there was always more than what the eye could see.
Police departments had finite resources, and the persons charged with the allocation of those resources had to make sure they were being used in the most efficient ways. And those resources never matched the number of cases that detectives were forced to take on. So cases with dead-end leads or low chances of success were shelved. But that was where Grant could help now. His success rate wasn’t as high as when he was a detective, but it was high enough for the work to keep coming his way.
Less than a paragraph had been written on the yellow notepad, and Grant dropped the pencil, rubbed his face, and reclined in his chair. His mind kept circling back to Anna and her parents. None of it made any sense. But he wondered if there were things that he hadn’t noticed, something he missed.
As often as he worked the cold cases to stay sharp, he knew his detective senses had rusted over the past two years. There could have been warning signs that he overlooked, some unheard cry for help.
Grant pushed himself out of the chair, catching Bandit’s attention as he paced the room. He chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over the options. He knew he wasn’t a detective anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time.
But ever since his dismissal from the department, Grant had missed the purpose of being a detective. And his longing for the badge stretched beyond the adrenaline rush that officers fed off of like an addict with a needle. That addiction claimed the lives of more retired cops than it should. Sitting around all day, twiddling their thumbs after thirty years on the job, led to wrapping their mouth around the barrel of a 9mm and pulling the trigger.
During those first couple of months it was hard to shake those dark thoughts. Up until the incident that kicked him off the force, Grant had a stellar career. He’d solved more cases as a detective than any other officer in Seattle history, starting in Homicide and ending in Missing Persons.
Most of the cases Grant worked were for missing children. He spoke with more terrified parents than he cared to count. But when those families were at their worst, Grant was at his best.
Before he thought better of it, Grant walked to his room, Bandit following at his heels, and opened the closet where Anna had been hiding earlier that day. He stared at the corner of the closet where she’d sat, and then reached for a box on the top shelf.
Bandit hopped on the bed as Grant set the box down on the mattress. The dog sniffed around the lid of the box, Grant keeping it closed. Dust clung to its sides and top. It hadn’t been touched since he moved here, and for good reason.
“Hey, Bandit, lie down,” Grant said, stopping the dog from scratching at the box’s sides.
When Bandit finally lowered his head, resting his muzzle on top of his paws, Grant lifted the lid. A musty scent of cardboard drifted up and into the room, and he peered inside.
The contents were random, mostly the effects from his marriage to Ellen. He grabbed the small velvet box that contained their wedding rings. He rubbed his thumb over the dusty fabric and then set it aside, along with the pictures and mementos from a life that was nothing more than a faded memory.
At the bottom of the box was a small case that contained some relics from Grant’s detective days. Latex gloves, evidence bags, a lockpick set, a Maglite, a notepad, an old badge that he’d kept, and a digital watch.
Grant ran his thumbs over the watch’s face, smearing the dust off. During his days with Missing Persons, it had been his internal clock.
Grant was going to leave it, but just before he set it back in the box, he wrapped it around his wrist, the familiarity helping to get him back into a professional mindset. If he was going to do this, he might as well go all the way. He pocketed what he needed and then put the box away, Bandit following him to the door.
Grant stopped at the front door, and the dog circled his legs, whimpering. Grant’s heart rate was jacked. He knew that the moment he stepped out of his house and walked down the street, he wouldn’t be able to stop until it was done. It was a tic that he had, but that tic had made him a hell of a detective. He looked down to Bandit, the beast panting excitedly. He scratched behind the dog’s ears and bent to his knee. “It’s okay, bud.” He rested his forehead against the animal’s head. “We’re okay.”
His heart rate calmed, and so did Bandit�
��s panting. He stood, instructed Bandit to stay, and grabbed a hoodie on the coat rack by the door before he stepped outside.
Bandit voiced his displeasure at being left behind as Grant walked down the street, flipping the hoodie over his head.
The lack of streetlights and high-rises darkened the night to a shade of black that transformed the landscape into a different world. But he kept the flashlight off until he reached the house. No sense in drawing attention to himself now.
The Dunnys’ SUV was still parked in the drive, and Grant peered through its windows, finding it empty and seemingly untouched by the police.
Yellow crime-scene tape was crossed over the front-door entrance in a large X. The door had been closed, but when Grant went to examine the frame, he found that it had been broken, a footprint on the door’s paneling signaling it had been kicked in.
Grant frowned, surprised that the Dunnys kept their door locked. It wasn’t a common practice in Deville, and even after a life lived in Seattle, even Grant had gotten into the habit of keeping his front door unlocked. He made a mental note of that and donned his latex gloves before he broke the seal of crime tape and pushed the door open.
Nothing but dark shapes revealed themselves inside, and Grant reached for the flashlight. The beam cut through the black and exposed the crime scene in circular bits.
The hallway that cut through the middle of the house was marked with red evidence markers that identified footprints and bits of broken glass that shimmered in the flashlight’s beam. But the first thing to catch Grant’s eye was the blood spatter near the front door.
He bent down, examining the spray, which suggested the splatter came from a blow to the head. He turned around, noting the broken-in door. There was a scuffle here, most likely between Charles and the intruders. Though he couldn’t rule out Mary being hit.
