Eyes at the Window

by Deb Donahue

  Miranda studied the photograph he’d given her, then looked back at him, peering at his face just as carefully. It was as if she was trying to read his thoughts in the expression on his face.

  “You think the body I found is your brother’s.”

  Luke winced at her words. It hurt to hear it out loud. “It almost has to be.” He had to force himself to say it. “That was his jacket you found, I’m sure of it.” He’d intended to go down to the creek and look for himself first thing this morning, but doubted he was up for it now. He kept picturing it in his mind, though, as if he’d already seen it.

  “Then all the more reason to go to the sheriff. And none of this explains how you got shot.”

  Luke sighed, suddenly exhausted. The pain in his shoulder had begun to radiate throughout his whole body. He was tense with it and an ache had begun to grow in the small of his back. He squirmed a bit trying to find a more comfortable position. Miranda jumped when he moved, obviously terrified he was going to harm her. The thought softened his resolve. She deserved to hear the truth. Some of it, at least.

  “Right before my brother disappeared, he sent me a letter. He was up in arms about some deal he’d been involved in. Said he’d been duped and was going to make the guy pay.” He looked up at Miranda and held a hand out in appeal. “You’ve got to understand. He wasn’t—isn’t—a bad guy. My brother has the best heart of anyone I’ve ever known. He would never hurt anyone. But when it came to breaking the law, he liked walking a thin gray line between right and wrong.” His jaw tightened and he studied Miranda’s face carefully. “He was working for Harlan Hunter.”

  He stopped, assessing her reaction. Was it imagination, or did a flicker of distaste flash across her face at the mention of Hunter’s name? Or was her disgust for the fact that his brother had been loose with the law? Luke had seen the way Miranda carried her handgun everywhere she went around the property. She might be a hard core conservative who saw things strictly as black and white and believed anyone who ventured into the gray areas had clearly chosen the wrong side.

  “As soon as I arrived in town,” Luke continued, “I went to the farm to ask about him. When Hunter saw me, I know he thought I was my brother. I could tell something was terribly wrong. Bob Meek’s face even drained white, like he’d seen a ghost. Why would they react that way if my brother had just moved on to a different job, huh? Tell me if you can. Harlan Hunter knows what happened, and I’m willing to bet he has a good reason to hide the truth.”

  Miranda moved away to seat herself on a square bale of hay. She was still positioned with a clear path to the exit, but Luke was relieved to see that she appeared to be less wired than before. She seemed to be willing, at least, to believe him.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What are you trying to hide? If you really believe this story you’re telling me, you should go to the authorities with it.”

  “Because what if I’m wrong? What if my brother is still alive? Whatever he was involved in, I could tell from his letter it wasn’t completely legal. I’m not going to be responsible for getting him into trouble, sending him to prison. ”

  Luke’s mouth clamped shut hard. He couldn’t tell Miranda why the thought of his brother enduring a hell like that made him sick to his stomach. The concrete cage they called an exercise yard. The milling bodies of men constantly on guard around their fellow inmates. Lying awake those long dark nights with nothing to listen to except the coughs and curses from the surroundings cells to keep your thoughts at bay.

  “No,” he said violently, more to himself than to her. “I have to know for sure first. That’s why I went back there tonight. To Hunter’s place. I figured if I could snoop around while everyone was busy I could find something that might prove what’s going on. Whatever the hell it is.”

  “Harlan Hunter shot you?”

  He saw it that time, a distinct distaste when she said his name. Maybe she could be trusted with the truth. She might even be able to help.

  “Not him, I don’t think. His hired hand. Bob Meeks. Have you met him?” Then, when Miranda shook her head, “Whatever’s going on, he’s in it up to his eyeballs, trust me. He and Harlan both have been running all over your property at all hours of the night. I don’t quite know what they’re up to yet, but it involves the house somehow.”

  “This house? My property, you mean?” She seemed startled at the thought, then thoughtful, her forehead creasing between the eyebrows. Luke felt an urge to wipe the worry away gently with his thumb.

  “The first time I saw them,” he went on, “I was worried they were going to come into the barn, too. I even packed up my things ready to sneak out the back in case they headed in this direction. It must have been after midnight. Hunter drove them up and they both stayed inside for over an hour. When Hunter finally came back outside, he drove off. Alone. I never did see when Meeks left. Left me nervous as hell all night, let me tell you.”

  “So maybe Bob Meeks was just spending the night here for some reason?” But she didn’t buy that, Luke could tell from her tone.

  “If that was the case, why not pick the guy up the next morning? I waited, I’ll tell you. I didn’t see Harlan drive up again for another few days, and when he did both men were together again. Meeks must have walked back to the farm when I wasn’t looking. And why would he have to stay here, anyway? He’s got a room there at the Hunter farm.”

  “How long have you been watching them?”

  “Almost a month.” Over three weeks of cold nights huddled in the bunk with Butch his only source of warmth. Weeks of living only a few hundred yards from where his brother’s body probably lay rotting, alone and undiscovered until yesterday. Luke shuddered. “I’ve seen them here three times. Each time they arrive together and Hunter leaves alone. No sign of Bob Meeks until the next trip.”

  Miranda opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but then changed her mind. She stood up and stuck her flashlight in the back pocket of her jeans, clearly preparing to leave.

  “Whatever’s going on,” she said, “it doesn’t have anything to do with getting you medical attention. You say you don’t want to get your brother in trouble, then fine. Don’t mention him when the police question you. But Bob Meeks shot you, for heaven’s sake. You need a doctor and this hired hand needs to answer for that.”

  She moved toward the ladder to leave but Luke called out after her. “Wait, look, I’m fine.”

  He struggled to slide to the edge of the bed, then paused to catch his breath before pulling himself shakily to his feet. His injured arm sent waves of pain that made him think he would pass out again. As he swayed and closed his eyes, he could heard Butch whining in sympathy and feel the Shepherd press against his leg as if trying to offer his support.

  “I’ve got pain meds in my kit. Human ones,” he added with a smile. “They’ll take the edge off. I know how to treat injuries like this. Believe me. Just give me one more day. Whatever they’re up to, it’s probably happening tonight. Since they can’t come here, obviously, they’re going to be off their guard as they improvise an alternative. Let me get more evidence before we go to the authorities. I promise, even if I don’t find any, we’ll go to the sheriff tomorrow, together. You have my word.”

  “What makes you so sure something is happening tonight?” Miranda sounded skeptical, but Luke could tell she was willing to be convinced.

  “He’s got today circled on a calendar I found. You’ve got to trust me on this. I can pinpoint their past activities based on what I’ve seen and how that matches the markings on the calendar. Don’t let this—” He motioned to his injured arm. “This can’t get in the way. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  He touched his injury and smiled slightly, rotating the shoulder a little to reassure her. The pain was less this time, but maybe that was just because his arm had grown numb.

  “This isn’t as important as finding out what happened to my brother. If that man hurt him…” Luke’s jaw tightened
. “If he’s responsible in any way, I need to find enough evidence to make him pay.”

  Chapter 15

  The look in Luke’s eyes at that moment made it easy for Miranda to decide what to do. The shock and loss she’d glimpsed when he held the scrap of green sleeve she’d shown to him was increased tenfold this morning. In addition, he showed an anger and determination that no one could fake.

  Miranda had never had any brothers or sisters. She used to daydream about it, though, and as a child had loved reading books like the Hardy Boys and the Bobbsey Twins series where siblings banded together to support one another and solve mysteries the adults never even acknowledged.

  Maybe that was why she agreed to Luke’s request to hold off on contacting the sheriff. She was acting like this whole situation was some plot in a kid’s mystery story. Her mind realized it was all too real—bullet-boring, skeleton-rattling reality. But her heart wanted to believe she would do the same thing Luke was if she had a sibling who needed her help. What else could she do but agree to give him the extra time?

  “But what are you going to do?” she asked. “And how can you do it when you’re hurt like this?”

  “It’s better to keep you out of this,” was all he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. I’ll take some meds and rest to gather my strength. By this afternoon I’ll feel much better. So just go about your day and don’t worry. I’ll come see you in the morning and tell you what I’ve found out.”

  As she walked back to the house, Miranda felt more excitement than she did uncertainty, but she did still have some reservations. She wondered if she should have told Luke about Harlan’s offer to buy the farm. Confiding in him, however, would have made it clear how close she was to buying his whole story. It was better that he thought she still had reservations. He’d already lied to her once. Until she had actual proof, not just a gut instinct, she would keep her business to herself.

  Harlan pressuring her to sell was beginning to make sense in a weird sort of way. Obviously there was something on the property that was valuable to him. Something in the house maybe? What hidden treasure was worth all the effort he was putting into it? Worth perhaps murdering a young man over?

  It was only ten o’clock according to the clock in the kitchen. There were still a couple of hours to kill before having to meet Patty and her husband for dinner. The perfect opportunity to do a little research of her own. Maybe she could figure out what there was in the house that interested Harlan so much. If that didn’t work, the postmistress seemed the perfect person to question about Harlan Hunter and his hired hand.

  She’d already gone through all the furniture and most of the boxes that had been cluttering the downstairs. Nothing she’d found there seemed valuable. Half of that had been moved into the upstairs bedrooms. The only part of the house that she hadn’t investigated hardly at all was the basement.

  She’d purchased a hook and eye door lock on her first trip into Riverside and installed it on the cellar door in the kitchen. Being able to lock the door every night had provided an increased sense of security. Confident that no one could come into the house from that direction, she’d been happy to ignore the damp dark basement. Now, however, it was time to face her fears and explore further. At least now the electricity was working and she could turn lights on as she walked through the rooms.

  The furnace room at the bottom of the stairs was as she remembered it, pretty much empty except for the furnace, hot water heater and old wringer washer. The work room, in addition to the scattered tools on the work bench, had several old metal cabinets. Miranda shivered, remembering how the rust on the tools had looked like blood to her the first time she’d entered the room. Most of the shelves in the room were empty, however, and all she found were old half-used cans of paint, cleaning supplies and a pile of old rags.

  The pantry likewise contained nothing of apparent value. Miranda shuddered as she pushed aside the jars of rotten pickles to look behind them. Why had it seemed like they contained small dead corpses the first time she saw them? Everything that night had loomed out of proportion and felt tinged with evil. She’d been disoriented and delusional, seeing monsters in the shadowy corners around her.

  The last room at the back, the root cellar, had been the scariest of all, she remembered. She hesitated now with her hand on the door latch. The musty smell that leaked through the wooden slats reminded her of how nauseated she’d felt that night. Taking in a deep breath, she pulled open the door.

  This room alone was in total darkness. The windows had been covered over and though Miranda scanned her flashlight beam all through the room, there did not seem to be any light to turn on. There was a porcelain receptacle in the middle of the ceiling where a bulb could be placed, but it was empty, the string hanging down from it useless.

  Tingling with fear, Miranda nevertheless stepped into the room. Standing in the light from the open door behind her, she paused to do her deep breathing exercise which strengthened her resolve. She began exploring the cupboards along the walls with her flashlight. They were all completely empty except for a scattering of dried onion skins in one. The bins along the floor only contained rotten root vegetables.

  The only other furniture in the room, a small corner table, was not only empty but so water-stained it was worthless. But wait. Miranda stood in the middle of the floor, looking around. Something was missing. Hadn’t there been a bunch of crates in the room when she glanced in that first night? Had she just been imagining it, like she had with the pickle jars? She studied the dirt floor carefully, but saw no impressions in the earth that made it look like anything heavy had been there.

  The only odd thing in the room now was how clean the table seemed. It had less dust on it than the other furniture Miranda had cleared out upstairs. Raising the flashlight beam, it also seemed all the cobwebs above it had been removed. At least, it was the only corner in the basement that wasn’t strewn with dusty webs heavy with spider eggs.

  Just above the table ran one of the furnace ducts, curved upwards to provide heat to the dining room. The duct had been damaged. A hole had been punched through about the size of a rat hole. She would have to get someone in to repair that, and someone else to check for rodents.

  Miranda dusted off her jeans and went back upstairs, discouraged. She was going about this all wrong. What Harlan was looking for couldn’t be something in plain sight, or she would have found it by now. Certainly Harlan would have found it already if he’d been spending as much time in the house as Luke said he had. The house had been left empty for months. He would have had plenty of time to explore everywhere.

  Remembering the rumor that the house had been used as part of the Underground Railroad, Miranda started knocking on walls. Maybe there was a secret room somewhere that had been used to hide the slaves away. Harlan could be using it to store something illegal, drugs perhaps. However, all her tapping just proved frustrating. She had no idea what a hollow wall would sound like. Did the east wall really sound different than the one to the north, or was she imagining it?

  Finally, she gave up. She’d been wasting her time anyway, keeping herself busy so she wouldn’t just sit and worry. Was the skeleton in the creek bank Luke’s brother? If so, what had happened to him? The thought that Harlan Hunter had anything to do with it made her shiver with fear. She didn’t like to think her father could ever have worked and played side by side with the man who might be connected to a missing person and mysterious skeleton.

  She also kept worrying about Luke. That bullet wound had seemed pretty serious to her. He had assured her he would be all right. If he really was a veterinarian, then he probably knew more about how dangerous it was than she did. He was right, probably when he’d said it was best if she stayed out of this. Still, she knew too much already and found it impossible to stay detached and not involved.

  Rufus barking outside brought her out of her reverie. She’d forgotten she let him stay outside when she came in earlier. She knew he wouldn�
��t stray far. He spent most of his time digging holes in the orchard looking for moles and ground squirrels.

  When she let him in, she realized how late it was. Quickly washing her hands and splashing her face, she took a quick look in the bathroom mirror and decided she wasn’t in the mood to apply makeup, though she did run the brush through her hair and change clothes. She left Rufus loose in the yard again and drove off after a quick look at the barn to see if anyone was in sight. There wasn’t. She hoped that meant Luke was resting and recuperating.

  Patty Carmichael’s house was a two story colonial with a wide front porch. Window boxes hung from the porch and overflowed with multi-colored petunias struggling to survive the crisp fall nights. Miranda announced her arrival by rapping the front door knocker which was shaped like a horse’s head. The sound produced several howls from a hound a few houses down.

  Miranda looked down at her newest jeans and simple white blouse. She hoped she was dressed fancy enough for a Sunday afternoon meal. If she had been thinking, she would have picked up something yesterday to take to Patty’s as a gift: wine, perhaps, or some kind of dessert. Instead, she had simply grabbed a jar of the canned goods that Sissy had given her. The small grocery store in Greenville was closed on Sunday and she hadn’t given herself enough time to travel to Riverside where the larger supermarket was.

  Patty, however, seemed delighted to get the jar of Sissy’s peaches Miranda had brought with her. “Wonderful!” she screeched when she answered the door and saw Miranda standing there with her meager hostess gift. “Oh, tell me these peaches are Sissy’s, will you? I know they are. That woman always draws cats on her jar labels.”

  She took the jar Miranda held out and turned the label toward her guest to make sure she’d noticed the simple drawing of a smiling kitten face in the label’s upper left corner. Miranda hadn’t really paid attention to it before, but now that Patty pointed it out, she couldn’t help thinking it looked a lot like the cat drawing on her grandfather’s letters to her grandmother.