by Stevan Mena
Michael emptied his lungs with passion. "Oh jeez…sky's the limit."
CHAPTER 62
The rain continued to pour, Jack swerved to avoid an oncoming car that had drifted into his lane. His right tire dipped into a deep puddle, splashing a wave of water a good 10 feet in the air. He fought the wheel, turning into the skid to regain control.
"Come on!"
The road he was expecting wasn't there, he must have made a wrong turn. It didn't matter too much, all the roads in this area terminated along the same main stretch a few miles up. He'd just have to double back. But any time he might have saved going this way was now lost.
Jack's phone rang, he fumbled along the seat for it, refusing to take his eyes off the road again, even for a second. It was Harrington.
"Yeah?"
"Jack, we found something. They're bringing it up now."
Jack swallowed, his emotions conflicting between closure and bitter failure.
"Where are you?" Harrington asked. Jack strained to see the name of a street sign through the rain.
"Lost…" Jack hung up and took the turn, hoping he could double back quicker than he thought. His car swiveled on the slippery surface, he slowed down a bit to correct it. He passed a few rural homes, small two and three bedroom colonials, each separated by an acre of property. One house had several junked cars parked on the lawn. He made his way towards the main road again; another 2 miles, he figured.
A sign pointing to highway 406 confirmed it and he accelerated. He looked out over an expansive patch of grassy field. It was brown from the onset of winter, large patches of earth where flood water was collecting in thick pools from all the heavy rain. Adjacent to the field was a steep hill where power lines stretched to infinity. Something caught his attention along the top.
High up at the apex of the hill was a large, rusted water tower. Jack squinted to read something on its side, a worn slogan:
Find Jesus.
Jack slowed to a stop. He rolled down the window to get a better look, rain splashing off the door into his face. He put the car in reverse and turned down an adjacent road. He wanted to get closer.
The road was narrow, uneven, the ups and downs of the terrain were a little much on the shocks of his old car. He felt each bump in his spine, ignoring the pain.
He passed a few more houses, one was in great disrepair, its windows and doors boarded up while the walls themselves crumbled down. On his left, he passed a small church whose facade had seen better days. Scattered shingles from the roof littered the grass from a recent storm.
He spotted something in the distance, a small long abandoned fruit stand.
JACK SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.
He pulled over and stepped out of the car. The sign on the fruit stand read:
The Fruits of Our Labors.
Jack stood stunned. He read it, then re-read it, wiping his rain-soaked face to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
He took a step to his right and could see the water tower - its slogan, Find Jesus — clearly visible behind it.
Jack turned in place. Behind him was a small white house, a light on inside.
He looked back at the church down the road. Then at the fruit stand. Then the water tower.
"There are no coincidences," Leonard's voice repeated in his head.
Jack turned back towards the tiny house and reached inside his jacket for his gun. His hand was shaking uncontrollably. Maybe it was from the freezing rain. Maybe.
As Jack slowly approached the house, he noticed a basement window facing the road with protective metal bars on it, the kind normally used in the inner city. He stepped quietly across the grass and up the two broken steps to the front door.
He knocked. No answer. He knocked again and the door swayed open loosely. Jack looked over his shoulder, his car parked in the middle of the street. He turned and took a cautious step inside the house.
He found himself in a small kitchen. There were dirty dishes piled ten high, a month's worth, empty glasses filled with liquids, flies swarming loudly.
"Hello?" Jack called out. He could hear a TV, someone was watching a game show in the living room.
"Lansing Police Department. Is anyone home?"
He passed through an open doorway into the living room, his gun leading the way. There was a TV on, but no one was watching it. The floor was littered with dirty food trays, dozens of upended pill bottles, and crumpled tissues. A dust covered wheelchair parked in the corner. The rancid smell was nauseating.
A toilet flushed - Jack spun in the direction of the noise. A bathroom door opened and an elderly woman, holding her robe together with both hands, stepped slowly into view. She reached for her walker. Jack holstered his gun.
She looked terribly malnourished and disheveled. Her skin hung from her bones, covered with liver spots and small cuts and welts. Her tattered robe was full of stains. Her face looked like it hadn't touched water in months. She made her way back to her La-Z-Boy.
"Ma'am?" Jack finally said, but she didn't even turn to acknowledge him. She sat down and resumed her program as if no one else was in the room.
Jack took a step closer.
"Turn up the heat, will you?" the old woman said finally, her voice hoarse and scratchy, like the witch from the Grimm's fairy tale. "It's cold in here. Aren't you cold?"
She spoke to Jack as if she'd known him all her life. He stood there, confounded.
"I'm sorry ma'am. The door was open. My name's Jack Ridge. I'm a police detective."
"So cold in here," she said, pulling her robe tighter, "is it cold?" She kept her eyes glued to the TV set.
"Ma'am, is there anyone else here?" Jack wasn't expecting a coherent answer.
"Where's that damn remote?" She fished around the seat of her chair unsuccessfully. "Damn it. What time is it? I'll miss it."
"Do you mind if I look around?" The woman finally turned to Jack. Her ghostly, lifeless eyes looked right through him.
"Hand me that water will you dear?" Jack spotted a glass of water on a nearby table. He reached out and handed it to her.
"Ma'am?" Jack hoped she might pop into lucidity, even just for a moment. He had questions.
The woman took a shallow sip of her water and turned back to her program. Jack gave up trying. He turned around, stepping cautiously, navigating his way out of the maze of china dishes and glasses strewn across the floor, wondering how the old woman had not tripped and killed herself long ago.
Jack spotted another stack of food trays left beside a door that he guessed led to the basement. He tried the handle — it was old, rusted, and hard to turn. He gave it a strong twist and it popped open. There was a staircase leading down into darkness. He felt for a light switch, but it had been removed, covered over with black duct tape.
Jack had none of his normal equipment with him, but he kept a small novelty flashlight on his keychain, a cheap piece of shit from the dollar store. He switched it on, its pinhole light was just enough to navigate the darkness.
Each step was creaky, the flimsy wood straining under his weight. There was another door at the bottom, which was locked. Jack figured he'd been patient enough. He gave it a strong kick, immediately realizing from the searing pain and the deep muffled thud that it must be made of steel. Jack examined the door frame and noticed it was also reinforced. Someone wanted whatever was behind that door kept a secret. The bars on the basement windows now made sense.
There were two locks, one on the handle and a secondary bolt. Jack thought about shooting off the lock, but a metal door like that — it could ricochet and hit him. He had a small kit in the car, he could pick the lock. He climbed back up the staircase.
He passed through the living room, the woman didn't even look up.
Jack reached his car, leaned in and opened the glove compartment. He tossed the contents and grabbed a few long pieces of metal with different points on each end.
His cell phone rang, it was Harrington again.
"Yeah."
"Hey, Jack, false alarm; it was only animal bones."
Thunder rang out as Harrington's words buzzed in Jack's ear. "Call Central, have a car sent over to 8 Cobbler Road." Jack dropped the phone, not giving Harrington a chance to ask why.
CHAPTER 63
Michael sat at Laura's dining room table, examining several of Rebecca's paintings, spread out. There was one of a man and woman locked in an embrace, done in oil colors.
"How long did you say?" Michael asked.
"A few hours," Laura guessed. "Sometimes I watch her, and it's like she's not painting, more like she's waving a brush and simply revealing the picture beneath, as if it had always been there on the paper."
Michael put his palm to his forehead. "She doodles with the talent and maturity it takes most artists a lifetime to achieve. If one of my students did this, I'd probably keel over."
Laura watched over his shoulder, concealing a proud ear-to-ear grin with her fingertips. Michael stood up and, with meticulous care, lifted the painting and placed it with the others he'd already examined.
The next one caught him by surprise. It was of a girl holding her mother's hand. The girl looked like Rebecca, her face seemed desperately sad. It's why it stayed so permanently in his memory. The expression on the little girl's face had a quality that was surreal, haunting. Michael gripped the painting on the sides, unable to place it down.
"That's one of my favorites," Laura said.
"I feel like I've seen this painting before…"
"What?"
"But it can't be. That's your daughter's face in the portrait. Just seems so familiar. I know I've seen it before."
"That's impossible, I've never shown it to anyone. She only did it a few months ago."
The front screen door opened. Laura exited the room. "Rebecca?"
Michael set the painting in question aside. Underneath was a disturbing, graphic rendering of a girl with long black hair, smeared in pink and red, lying next to a river. Floating above the girl was an angel, just above the trees. The drawing was very simplistic, more typical of a child's scribbles than her other works. As if she purposely drew it poorly, trying to avoid the meticulous detail, avoid facing whatever thoughts in her head prompted her to put it on paper.
CHAPTER 64
Jack held the tiny flashlight in his teeth as he attacked the lock from multiple angles, manipulating the keypins with the metal pick back and forth. He dropped his arms a second, his shoulders giving out from fatigue. He took a few short breaths, which triggered a cough that spit the flashlight from his lips. It went out, leaving him in darkness. He fished around for it on the floor, hitting it with the tip of his finger, pushing it under the door.
"Shit…"
He reached up to have one more go at the lock. He inserted the two pieces of metal. One piece broke off, getting jammed.
"Fuck!"
Jack stood up and pulled out his gun. He shielded his face, and fired. The lock blasted open with one shot, splintering the frame into pieces. Jack kicked open what was left and entered, wafting away the smoke from the barrel. He reached down and found his small keychain flashlight that had slid under the door. He clicked it on and aimed it around.
He had to cover his nose to reduce the putrid odor. It wasn't decaying flesh, he knew that awfulness. This was more like feces, filth, mold, a ghastly combination of foulness that literally choked him.
There were three rooms. It looked like the basement had been modified into an apartment at one time; crude, unmeasured sheetrock, exposed wires hanging down through torn ceiling tiles, old brown paneling peeling off the glue from moisture and mildew. There were cardboard boxes lining the floor. Jack didn't bother to check their contents.
He moved into one room, it was a makeshift studio. He felt around the walls, found a switch, flipped it. A dim red bulb flickered and lit. Not bright, but enough to look around.
There were several cameras on tripods, a few lights on stands. Computers were stacked on top of one another. There was a painting on an easel of a young girl.
Jack turned to a shelf filled with several boxes, each stuffed to overflowing with photographs of young girls in various states of undress. Jack grabbed a stack and flipped through. Beneath the dozens of posing innocents was a batch of much more vile images, dozens of photographs of young girls tied up and gagged. He didn't recognize any of them until he came across a few of Lisa Delgado, they were the same pictures he'd held in Sheriff Miller's office.
He tossed them back in the box and sifted through a few more. One of a half naked girl stood out. Something familiar about her. He examined it closely, holding it under the light.
It was Angelina! Her face was bruised and battered, barely recognizable. He noticed a few scattered business cards on the dusty table. He turned one over, a card for a modeling representative. It had a professional sheen, a clever ruse. Was this the job Angelina was heading to? Deceived by vanity and false promise? Jack's mind raced.
CHAPTER 65
Laura found Rebecca in the kitchen, she was on her tippy toes reaching into the freezer, her hair and clothes soaking wet from the rain.
"What are you doing?" Laura asked.
"Gettin' some ice cream."
"I thought I told you just a few minutes? Where were you?"
"Just outside riding." Rebecca pulled a tub of chocolate chip out and dropped it on the counter next to a waiting bowl and spoon. Laura touched Rebecca's still dripping hair.
"You're soaked."
Rebecca scooped some ice cream into the bowl. "Whose car is that outside?"
"Someone I'd like you to meet."
"Now?" Rebecca said, her mouth full of chocolate. Laura took Rebecca by the arm, her hands cradling the bowl of ice cream. She walked Rebecca into the dining room, where Michael was still hunched over the table, preoccupied with Rebecca's disturbing picture.
"Rebecca, I'd like you to meet Michael Ketcher, he's an art professor."
Michael turned to Rebecca. "Hey darlin', whatcha got there, ice cream?"
Rebecca lost all sensation in her body. The bowl slipped through her fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor, sending ceramic pieces and chocolate in every direction.
Her face contorted as she let out an ear-splitting scream. Laura watched with utter confusion as Rebecca backed away, shivering and shrieking in terror.
But what was worse-
The look of surprised fear on Michael's face. A strange, guilty desperation, as if he had something to hide. And suddenly it all somehow came together for Laura, as it must have instantly for Rebecca. And all three knew that something terrible was about to happen. Laura blinked first, grabbing Rebecca's hand and sprinting for the front door, but Michael gave chase and struck her down to the floor like a bolt of lightning.
CHAPTER 66
A rustling noise spun Jack around. He took a step towards the sound, holding his breath, silent. He aimed his gun at the dark corners of the room, his heart racing.
He navigated his way through the darkness into an adjacent room, gun barrel leading the way. He stepped around stacks of boxes piled five high, nearly taller than him. There was a hanging chain attached to a lightbulb in the center of the room. He cautiously tugged it, turning it on. A wall of slat board shelving held all types of old camera equipment. A workbench was buried beneath dirty plates, used cups, cruddy silverware, and meals half finished. And more boxes, everywhere.
Jack flipped open the top of one, dispersing years of dust into the air. Inside were expensive looking art supplies and paints. Jack turned and spotted several pictures on the wall; the same man in each, posing with various people. He stepped closer, focusing. The man in the pictures was Michael Ketcher. Son of a bitch — she did know him!
Had he and Leonard misconstrued what Rebecca was saying when she blurted out "catch her"? Had she named her killer after all? One picture showed Michael smiling, standing next to several Black and Latino youths in front of the Community Center. Behind them a banner read:
Another sign read:
Sponsored by Monroe College for the Arts.
He moved to the last room, there was daylight coming through a window. He looked out and spotted the patrol car he'd ordered pulling up.
He could see the fruit stand from here. "The fruits of our labors," he whispered. He could also see the water tower far in the distance on the hill, the words Find Jesus clearly legible.
"Find Jesus…"
Then a strange rattling noise spun him around again. Mice? Rats?
The light from outside reflected off a large metal cage, the kind very big dogs are kept in. Jack inched closer, there was something moving inside. He could hear whatever it was…breathing. Jack shined his tiny flashlight.
It was a young girl! Naked, hunched over, the cage not much bigger than her body. Her hair was black, her skin bruised, bloody. Underneath the elevated cage was a bucket for human waste.
"My name's Detective Jack Ridge, can you speak?" The girl turned her bruised and battered face towards him. It was the face he'd been agonizing over for months. It was Angelina. She was alive!
"Christ." Jack searched for a way to pry her cage open, something to smash the lock. He could hear the officer walking across the ceiling upstairs.
"Detective Ridge?" the officer called out.
"Down here! Call an ambulance!"
CHAPTER 67
The top of Laura's head had struck the sharp corner of the kitchen counter before smashing onto the linoleum floor. She was out cold, a small puddle of blood pooled under her hair.
Rebecca collapsed beside her mother. "Mommy! Wake up!" Rebecca shook Laura, trying to rouse her. Michael kicked Rebecca onto her backside. He reached for her, but she pushed off with her legs, sliding across the floor until her back was up against the wall. Michael stepped forward, bent over, and callously slapped her hard across the face.
Rebecca's cheek stung, the shock of the blow left a loud ringing in her ears, making her dizzy. She'd never been struck by an adult before. Her entire life, her mother had never once laid a hand on her. Laura had made a vow never to strike her children during a particularly vicious beating doled out by her father when she was 15. One night he'd come home drunk after losing big at a poker game. She was in view and he needed to vent. Laura lost a tooth in the attack, and kept it as a reminder. She would never hurt her own child. Ever.
