The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set

by Jeremy Peterson

  “Really? When did they tell you this?”

  “A couple hours ago. She went on and on about it. She’s pretty shaken up.”

  “I was just out there. Why didn’t … shit, it doesn’t matter, I guess—”

  “Me and the Barrows’ go back a long way, Trent. Don’t take it personal. Me and Donny’s uncle came back from Korea together. You know how it goes.”

  Trent wasn’t sure he did, but he nodded anyway. “Are they forwarding the video to us?”

  Virgil threw up his hands, “I don’t know. That computer shit is beyond me—”

  “All right, all right. I’ll go back out there and talk to them. Don’t blow a gasket.”

  “You can wait until Chuck rolls in if you want. It is your day off.”

  “No. I think I should do it. I want to.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s best,” the Sheriff said. “What were you doing out there this morning, anyway?” Virgil stubbed out one cigar and reached for the next. “Do you even know how to do a day off?”

  Trent smiled and shrugged his shoulders, “I was heading out to the cemetery to … I found their dog on Harlow Road. Somebody hit her. She’s dead.”

  Virgil shook his head slowly. “Jesus jumped up. When it rains it pours, eh?”

  As though on cue, thunder cracked outside. Freezing cold rain pelted the windows of Virgil’s kitchen like a sand storm. “Seems that way,” Trent said.

  “Chuck is going to be busy today, if he ever gets in from Big Springs,” Virgil said, nodding his head towards the window. “People forget how to drive when the weather turns shitty.”

  “Ain’t it the truth? But better him than me.” Trent Thanked Virgil for the coffee and refused a cup to go. “I’ll let you know about the email video, and what—if anything—it amounts to.”

  “I know you will.”

  Trent let himself out and ran through the icy wind towards his cruiser. His foot slipped on the icy walkway, and he flailed both arms wildly to regain balance. He managed to stay upright, but felt a sharp twinge in his back.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Pulling a back muscle while trying to keep your balance on the ice might be the truest reminder that middle age is no joke. Trent shuffled the rest of the way to his car, wincing as ice pellets stung his face. He threw open the car door and slipped inside.

  “God, I could use one of Janet’s back massages tonight,” he said, knowing that wasn’t going to happen.

  On the drive back to the Barrows’, Trent waited for his radio to chime in with an accident here or an accident there, but nothing came in.

  Maybe everyone would do the smart thing today and stay home, he thought.

  He could hope, but he knew it was only a matter of time. If the inevitable onslaught could wait long enough to allow him to get this Barrows’ matter taken care of, then Trent figured that would be good enough.

  When he pulled into the driveway of the Barrows’ home, he noticed Daisy was no longer in the back of Donny’s truck. That surprised him. He figured the old man would wait until the storm passed.

  Trent let his engine idle on the gravel driveway, while the wind rocked the cruiser on its haunches. Finally, the porch light clicked on, and Trent thought he could see someone’s silhouette behind the large bay window. He sighed, opened the car door to the weather, and made his way to the Barrows’ front door.

  Before he could knock, Vanessa Barrows swung open the door and glared at him. She was a slight, hawkish woman with thin lips and a little pointy nose. She was small, but not dainty. Sturdy even. A farm girl. “Come in, Deputy. And don’t forget to wipe your feet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Trent tucked his hat under his arm and diligently wiped his feet on the rug. “I’m really sorry about Daisy. She was a good girl.”

  “Well, you didn’t know her that well, I guess,” Vanessa Barrows said, turning her back to the Deputy. She carried a stack of women’s magazines against her bosom, and after careful consideration; she laid them in a box on the living room floor. Trent noticed dozens of empty boxes stacked against the east wall and wondered how many Country Living magazines does one woman need? Suddenly, he could picture the Barrows garage stacked front to back with boxes of magazines; all neatly cataloged by month and year. Red Book. Reader’s Digest. Home & Garden. Maybe even some Cosmopolitan or National Enquirer.

  “I said, are you here to see the video?”

  Vanessa Barrows eyed the Deputy the way she always did; distrust mixed with a healthy dose of dislike. He didn’t know why she didn’t like him, aside from the fact that he wasn’t a local, even though he had been a Chaplin Hills resident for almost fifteen years. Maybe it was because he just wasn’t Sheriff Virgil. Either way, he had mostly grown used to it and tried not to take it personal. “What? Oh, yes, ma’am, the video, right. The Sheriff told me about it. When did you receive the video?”

  “We got it last night. It was sent to our email.” She motioned to the desktop computer in the corner of the living room. “I was waiting for an email from one of my auctions when I noticed it. I lost the auction because of it.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Mrs. Barrows.”

  “I’m sure. I think whoever did this to my boy sent it. It couldn’t have been Leo, because, like I said, we only got it last night.”

  “I’m no expert, ma’am, but I believe they can schedule these emails in advance.” He neglected to add that they had found no recording device at the scene of Leo’s death.

  Vanessa glared at the deputy, and then turned her back to him. “Well, I don’t know about any of that.”

  Trent let her steam for a moment, and then said, “I’d like to see the video.”

  “I made you a copy.” She turned to him and reached into the front pocket of her smock. After hesitating, she held out a small flash drive. “If you could copy the video and return the drive, I would appreciate it. Those aren’t cheap.”

  “Jesus, Van, you have a whole drawer full of those damn things. Let the man do his job. He’s trying to help.” Trent almost jumped at Donny’s voice. He hadn’t heard him come in. “Thanks for coming, Deputy.”

  Trent nodded.

  “We got a copy of it to the State Police. They said it wasn’t necessary for you to see it. Jurisdiction and whatnot.” The big man shrugged. “But what the hell does it matter? They aren’t going to change their determination of the whole thing. I can tell, Deputy. They don’t give a shit about Leo. They don’t give two-shits about any of us out here. Just call it a suicide and move on to something more worthwhile. That’s how they see it.”

  Dana Demarco, a cleaning lady at the Best Western, was the unfortunate one to find him. It was the second dead body at the hotel in ten years. Poor Dana found both of them. She retired an hour later. Dana found him hanging in the closet like dry cleaning, his own leather belts cinched around his neck. The first thought was accident. Autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. The boy’s pants were loose, but of course the belt that held them up was currently indisposed. Eventually, the authorities fell on suicide. They found the word ‘sorry’ crudely carved into the dead boy’s right forearm, and the skin and blood under Leo’s fingernails turned out to be his own. Despite Leo being right-handed, it was a good enough suicide note for the investigators. Case closed.

  Although Trent and Janet had never had kids, he understood no parent wanted to believe their child could commit suicide. He didn’t need to be a great cop to know this. And he wasn’t about to suggest otherwise to two grieving parents in his town.

  “I’m sure they’re doing what they can,” Trent said.

  “Well, that makes one of us. Watch the tape, Deputy. I can’t explain it …” his voice cracked, and the grieving father turned his back to Trent. “Something was very wrong that night. Just watch the video, but promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”

  “That’s my job, Donny. That’s the one thing I can promise.” He left the fact that it was the only thing he could promise unsaid.

  �
��Good.”

  Trent nodded his head, suddenly becoming uncomfortably aware of the flash drive in his hand. He tucked it deep into the pocket of his police issue jacket. Donny watched him do this with a blank expression on his face.

  “Be safe out there, Deputy. It’s gonna’ be a bad one.”

  “Sure thing, Donny,” Trent said, wondering if the man was talking about the storm or something else. Mr. Barrows headed to the door and Trent followed. After stepping onto the porch, the Deputy turned and spoke through the wind, “You’ll be hearing from me. You have my word.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Donny said, standing in the doorway, wind whipping snow and artic-cold rain against them both. His wife, who had materialized from somewhere—possibly the kitchen—slipped in behind him. Despite the bags under her green eyes, they still blazed, and she focused them on the Deputy as sternly as ever. Trent could see the cold desperation in them, too. They were counting on him. They were both counting on him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trent slowly maneuvered the cruiser down Harlow Road. The gravel provided plenty of traction, but he couldn’t see more than a couple of feet beyond his front bumper. And every few moments, the wind would rock the Ford hard enough to force him to use both hands to maintain control. He thought about the video in his pocket and, like always, he wondered what his wife would think of all of this.

  I should get home, he thought. But first …

  “A quick patrol through town; make sure nobody has wrapped themselves around a …” He does not finish the sentence, deciding there is no reason to tempt fate in such a manner.

  Let Deputy Kelly deal with it.

  As he approached town, he squinted through the storm, desperate to see civilization of any kind. Lights. Moving cars. Something.

  He saw nothing.

  “Jesus, I hope the power is still on.”

  Although he couldn’t see it through the storm, the woods on the north side of town rolled by slowly at his right. Through swirling snow, sleet, and gloom, he could see the faint glow of street lamps overhead. He stopped at the stop sign (not because he could see it, but because he knew it was there) and said a silent prayer, hoping that the town’s electricity would remain operational. The sun would be down soon. Dealing with a town full of folks without power in what was looking to be a real corker (he wouldn’t call it the storm of the century; he just wouldn’t do it) was going to be hard enough.

  As Trent pulled out from the intersection of 13th and Harlow, he said another silent prayer, hoping that if someone was cruising down 13th right now, they could see him … because he sure couldn’t see them. He pulled out into the street and held his breath. He didn’t get T-boned, but his police cruiser did lose traction causing it to slide to the left, then the right, before Trent corrected it. The gravel trucks—which are exactly what they sound like; trucks paid for by the County to sprinkle gravel over the icy streets for traction—wouldn’t be out for several more hours, and he decided it would be best to go straight home before he became Officer Kelly’s first accident report. Besides, he was itching to watch that Barrows’ video. And, more importantly, to speak to his wife Janet, which Trent would tell you is always a good idea.

  He continued south on Harlow until it turned into 11th, then made a right onto Vale. He hadn’t grown up in Nebraska, but snowy winters were no mystery to him. The snow came even harder in his hometown in up-state New York, but the freezing rain was turning the streets of Chaplin Hills into a mockery.

  He pulled into the driveway of his modest single story home and hit the button on his garage door opener, which hung from the cruiser’s visor. The door shimmied its way up, its usual grinding and popping lost among the blowing wind and the sound of ice pelting his car. He pulled in the stall and killed the engine, breathing a sigh of relief.

  It was cold inside his house. The extreme temperature drop from this morning should not have surprised him, but it did. Trent adjusted the thermostat and turned on the coffee pot to reheat that morning’s leftovers.

  “Ah, reheated coffee. My favorite.”

  Probably still better than Virgil’s, he admitted privately.

  When the coffee maker dinged, he poured a cup and sat at the kitchen table. He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed the memory stick. It was cold to the touch, and he turned it back and forth with his fingers.

  “It’s been a crazy day, honey.”

  The house was silent. Trent continued to focus on the tiny piece of metal and plastic in his hand—the tiny piece of metal and plastic, which held a video made by a dead kid. Leo Barrows may have been eighteen, but that was still a kid in Trent’s book.

  “Is the storm as nasty as you thought it would be, dear?”

  Trent smiled but didn’t look up. “That it is, my love. Probably even worse.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “You know me; I’m always careful.”

  “Yes.”

  His smile faltered, but only for a moment. He still didn’t look up from the memory stick.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Let me guess … it’s about the boy; that Barrows boy isn’t it?”

  “It’s a video. I just came from his parent’s house. They are … not doing well.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they are. How are you doing? You don’t look that great, either.”

  Trent chuckled. “You still worry too much.” He got up from the dining room table and headed towards the living room. “What do you say we pop in this video and see what all the hub bub is about?”

  “Why didn’t they just email you a copy? Why did they make you drive all the way out there and risk your life on those roads?”

  Trent could only shake his head at that. “Good question, love. Good question.”

  “I wonder about this town sometimes, Trenton, I really do.”

  He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he grabbed his laptop from the bookcase and sat in his favorite recliner. The lights in the house flickered overhead. Trent held his breath until they came back on, and more importantly, stayed steady.

  “Oh, dear, I have a feeling you’re gonna’ have a long day,” Janet said.

  “Funny,” Trent replied, “I was thinking the same thing.”

  He opened his computer and waited for the sign-on screen. He punched in his password (Janet’s initials and the month, day, and year of their first date) and waited for it to load.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t watch it. Maybe you should just close this case. The Sidney PD is calling it a suicide, which means there is nothing you can do, right? I mean … what’s the point?”

  Trent hesitated, but only for a moment. He inserted the drive and powered it up.

  There it was. Empty, minus an untitled movie file. He moved the cursor over the file and allowed it to hover. Trent could feel Janet’s apprehension. It threatened to swallow him like the tide. He double clicked the file before he could change his mind. The media player popped up on screen and the movie began to play. Four rambling minutes later, Leo Barrows was dead all over again.

  Trent sat back into his chair, letting the leather cushions envelop him.

  “Well, honey, that was something. What did you think?”

  The room was full of silence. Trent looked over his shoulder at the rest of the room, but it was empty. His wife did that from time to time, but he knew she would be back. He could always trust her to do that.

  He hit the play button on his media player and watched it again. Then a third time. Fourth. He may have gone for a fifth, but his cell phone ringer erupted in the quiet room.

  It was the Sheriff. Trent mouthed his favorite curse word and answered his phone. Day off or not, duty calls.

  After the short conversation, Trent tucked his phone into his shirt pocket and stood up, stretching his back. Muscles ached and vertebrae popped as they snapped into (or maybe out of) place. The Deputy groaned.

  “Be safe, Trent York.�
��

  He knew she would be back. Janet was faithful if nothing else. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And put old Jerry in the tank for the night. You’ll probably save his life … and you’ll definitely make your day easier.”

  She was referring to Jerry Richards, who, according to the Sheriff’s most recent phone call, had just driven his old Chevy into the transformer on 6th and Knox. Without that transformer, the entire street would be without electricity. Trent knew that if he didn’t get there soon, those folks might tear him to shreds.

  Janet was right. She always was. If he got there in time, he would take Jerry down to the courthouse and hold him overnight. That would be best for everyone. And it would serve the dumb bastard right for causing so much trouble on a day where trouble was surely coming on its own.

  Trent stepped into his garage without saying goodbye to his wife. Icy wind pelted the automatic door mercilessly, and Trent cursed Jerry’s name one more time.

  He backed the cruiser onto the street, nearly sliding into his neighbor’s mailbox. His neighbor—the old and easily agitated Alvin Tabor—would have never let Trent hear the end of that.

  I would have locked Jerry up had I smashed up old man Tabor’s mailbox on his account, Trent thought with a smile.

  The roads were as bad as he’d ever seen them, and he found himself hoping that the snow would finally come, if only to provide some traction on the layer of ice.

  As Trent continued his trek, the thought of Leo’s video haunted him. What did it mean?

  Hoax, his mind insisted. Had to be. But why? Why would a kid do that?

  “Social media,” he said to the empty police cruiser. The kids today were obsessed with social media. They couldn’t do anything without documenting it on Facebook or Instagram. As they said nowadays, ‘if you didn’t get it on video, it didn’t happen’.

  In the end, the how might be more important than the why. How did Leo tape his last moments? If it was a suicide, where is the camera?