by Nick Adams
She said nothing.
“I’ll probably find parts of dead dogs,” I said. “They must go through quite a few. I might find shallow graves in the fields. All sorts of nasty stuff. There’s just no telling till I get out there.”
Kendra took a deep breath and leaned back against the truck’s bedrail.
“Hopefully it won’t be that bad,” Willie said.
“Hopefully,” Kendra chimed. But she didn’t sound very hopeful.
I said, “If Lucy’s there, and alive, then we’ll call Uncle Danny. You can watch the arrest go down from the woods. If she’s not alive, the authorities will be shoveling what’s left of the Bradys into body bags.”
30
We idled along in the truck. Willie kept the lights off and inched along carefully. The truck’s silver hood was just bright enough against the pitch darkness to allow him to maneuver. No one said much. The tension was heavy.
“Close enough,” I said after a while. We were in a fairly wide section of trail with room to open the doors and move around.
“Better safe than sorry,” Willie said.
I stepped out as he cut the engine and Kendra slid out after. We gathered before the truck. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and adjusted the sling. The truck’s exhaust was ticking and the crickets were louder now that we were closer to the fields.
“I’m not a talker,” Willie said. “Good luck is all I’ll say.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Can you text me updates?” Kendra asked. “Just put your phone’s brightness way down?”
“I can try,” I said, and took out my phone. Made the adjustments and set it to silent.
“Hell,” Willie groaned. “What if we hear shooting? What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. If I need you, I’ll let you know. Just like at Bensons. And if I don’t come back and don’t respond by phone, call Uncle Danny. Otherwise, just wait for me.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into all this,” Kendra said. “Sorry I forgot to lock my car that night.”
“Stop,” I said. “They would’ve smashed the window and taken him anyway. And if I hadn’t been looking for Simon, I wouldn’t have had a lead on Lucy.”
“I guess,” she whispered.
“Hey, you’ve handled this for two weeks like a champ. Hold it together a little longer.”
She nodded.
I turned away and started walking at an easy pace. Didn’t want to say goodbye or anything stupid that would spike my nerves. No “feed Frank for me if I don’t come back” nonsense.
My steps were quiet on the pine needles. I breathed steadily and deeply. The air was cool and invigorating. To my right was all black woods and to my left was a strip of heavy trees bordering the dirt road. Opposite the road was the nearest field. I could just see its dim light.
Straight ahead I saw a small circle of light at the end of the tunnel. The spot where the trail intersected the road and crossed the far field. Then from the road crossing it would hug the outer edge of the field, to my right, and then go back into the trees way up beyond where I would be turning left to approach the house.
I slowed. Turned halfway around and looked back to where I’d come from. If I stared I might be able to see Willie and Kendra and the truck. I could see where I knew them to be more than I could actually see them.
Facing ahead again, I moved on at the same easy rate. Not rushing. Listening. Watching. Being cautious. Paying close attention to my steps. Smooth heel-to-toe steps. Watching for the first hint of a vehicle’s headlights in the dark distance. I didn’t need a car blasting me with headlights as I crossed the road.
When I neared the road I knelt down on one knee and held perfectly still. Held my breath. Listened closely and looked all around. Nothing. No headlights from either direction. No troubling sounds. There was no feeling of being watched. I felt alone. Comfortably and securely alone. There were no lights from the Bradys’ house. A big house. A nice house. Totally dark. There was one dim spotlight in the far corner of the yard, shining over some of the heavy equipment. Nothing else.
Maybe they all went out for a nice dirt bag family dinner.
I raised my M4 and looked through the scope. It made everything green and intensified the smallest amounts of light. I scanned everything slowly from right to left. Watched for movements. Watched for any signs of life. I saw nothing.
I stood up and moved out from the cover of the last few trees. Crossed the open road, trying to keep my footsteps light. There was a gap in the stone wall where the field met the roadside. I was surprised not to see a chain or a cable stretched across the gap, to keep vehicles from entering the field. I passed through the gap, stepping from firm gravel to soft and damp grass. It wasn’t tall grass or hay yet. It was too early in the season.
Pushing straight for the river, I crossed the field as quickly as possible without being loud. Without stomping and stumbling and panting and making myself look like something big trying to get away. I wanted to look like a shadow. A smudge of darkness gliding along smoothly, as when a small cloud slowly passes the moon and its shadow crawls along the ground.
When I reached the river I looked down. Saw the glare of the light of the sky in its surface. It was moving slow and quiet. Black and deep. No rapids in that stretch.
I turned left. Moved up beside a tree trunk and stared at the Bradys’ place. From that new vantage point I still couldn’t detect any lights from the house. None at all. The outline of the exterior was big and light in contrast with the night around it. It was just sitting there looking empty amid all that open space. No lamps glowing by a window. No flicker of a TV. No walkway lights or porch lights. Nothing.
My mind started to work. It was imagination at play, not lucid thoughts. I started to wonder if I’d seriously underestimated the Bradys. Maybe they were in there, watching me on a monitor via security cameras. Baiting the hook by making the place look empty. Setting the trap. Waiting for the rat to take that final step too close. Maybe they were completely prepared for any sort of intrusion. This was their homegrown business. Home and livelihood in one. Everything important to them. They might watch over every inch of their land like hawks.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then repeated. Told myself it was all bullshit and started walking slowly to the house. Hugging the river bank. Creeping along. Checking through my scope now and then. Keeping my breathing steady and controlled. Paying attention to each step. Feeling along with my feet. Listening hard for any sounds above the crickets. I would have welcomed the distant howl of a coyote or the hoot of an owl. But there was nothing at all. I wondered if this was what walking through Chernobyl at night would feel like.
The field finally merged with a big lawn. The grass was cut short. The lawn sloped up gradually to the house from the riverbank. There was a patio area behind the house in line with a big sliding glass door. There was lawn furniture and a wooden swing built into its own little gazebo. It was a nice yard.
I knelt down and held absolutely still and counted to thirty. Listening. Watching.
After thirty I stood and moved to the nearest corner of the house. I pressed my ear to the wall and held my breath. I couldn’t hear a thing. No footsteps or TVs. No voices. There wasn’t as much as a mouse scratching around in a wall.
Slowly I edged along the back wall. Made my way to the center of the house. Turned my hat around backwards and put my forehead about a millimeter from the sliding glass door. I was looking in at a very large kitchen and dining area. There was a big counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. Open concept. Very spacious. The only light I could see came from the digital readouts on the kitchen stove and the microwave.
Where the hell are you people?
It wasn’t very late. Half past nine at the most.
I moved on to the far end of the house. Ended up behind the attached garage. There was a side door into the garage. The top section was glass and I could see inside. Two bays were empty. The old
man’s pickup was the only vehicle inside. The only light came from the small red monitoring lights at the base of the garage doors.
I turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. Not a shocking scenario for a house in the middle of the country. I stepped in and closed the door gently. It seemed very still inside. The walls blunted the sound of fields full of crickets. I moved toward the door leading into the house. It was unlocked. I stepped softly into an entryway devoted to coats and boots and hats and shoes. Wiped the dew from my feet softly on a thick mat. Passed through and entered the side of the kitchen. Moved through that and checked all around the ground floor.
It was a nice house. A big house. The open concept design made it feel even larger than it was. Big windows let in light. It made it easy for me to search without feeling cloistered by multiple doors and tight hallways. The place was built well. The floors felt rock solid. No squeaks and groans. Hardwood and thick tiles. Everything was top quality. Everything was clean and orderly. And it felt thoroughly lifeless.
There was a doorway leading down to a basement. It looked pitch black down there so I decided to go around to the main stairway to the second floor. It was a wide stairway with plush carpeting. I climbed it quietly and easily.
The second floor was darker. One central hallway ran the length with doors opening off into rooms. Some of the doors were open, allowing a faint light, and some were closed. In all there were four bedrooms, one large communal bathroom, and a smaller bath off the master bedroom. Every room had plush carpets, except for small patches of tile by the bathtubs.
I moved around quietly and checked each room with my flashlight on the dimmest possible setting. Each room plainly reflected its occupants. I could tell Tommy’s bedroom from a spare room that didn’t seem lived in at all. The master bedroom was much larger than the rest. And one room was obviously decorated for a young girl. The curtains and bedding were a matching set depicting a Disney princess.
I went out to the hall. Shut off my light and went downstairs. Checked all around for family photos. Almost every photo was of Tommy, at some stage in his life. Everything from baby pictures to more recent portraits taken together with Amy Cutler. There wasn’t a single photo of a little girl. Not one.
Last I checked the basement. It was large and open. Clean and well kept. There was some storage and other typical basement items. A large furnace and a complex water filtration system. Probably to keep the pipes clean for decades to come. Otherwise there was nothing of interest. Nothing suspicious.
I went up the stairs and back out to the attached garage. Stepped out the side door into the concert of crickets and tried to think. Tried to make some sense of everything. I hesitated to jump to the most obvious conclusion. It was right there in front of me. It was an easy leap. But I didn’t dare to trust it. It felt like I’d be taking a long and careless step onto a slippery surface. I’m far from being Mr. Holmes. And I’d played everything wrong with the Bradys so far.
After a minute of thought I started searching the yard. There was plenty of cover to duck behind, equipment and structures. It felt much safer than navigating the open field. The river was on my right, gradually curving away, and all the construction stuff was on my left. I passed Tommy’s fancy Ram truck and picked my way across the yard to the first big garage. There were small spruce trees fanned out behind it and when I got close I found a chain-link pen filling the space between the trees and the rear of the building.
A dog pen.
I opened a door and stepped into the pen. Saw bare ground and signs of digging. Water bowls and food bowls. Little individual kennels built up against the back wall of the garage. But nothing else.
No Lucy.
No dogs.
I went back out and hugged the wall of the garage. Made my way to the front of the building and looked in through one of the little square windows in the big bay door. There were tools and work benches. Huge jacks and massive spare tires. Odd attachments and pieces of equipment I couldn’t even identify. All useful items to the Bradys. Nothing to me. The center of the big bay was empty.
There was a huge grader for smoothing dirt roads parked between the first and second garage. I went around the back of the grader, behind the second garage. Found nothing significant. Then I crept to the front of the second garage and looked in through the little windows on the door. It looked similar to the first on the inside. Except it wasn’t empty.
Off to one side, near the front, I saw a tractor. It was a four-wheel-drive with big rear wheels, smaller front wheels, and a bucket attachment. Like a mini backhoe. It was exactly the right machine for towing a vehicle along a trail. Powerful but compact. At the rear of the space there was a big dark shape.
I moved to the small entry door and turned the knob. Stepped in and closed the door. Made my way to the back. The dark shape was boxy. An SUV. A Cadillac Escalade. I walked all around it. It hadn’t been damaged or disassembled in any way. It was just sitting there. Out of place.
What the hell are you up to, Brady?
I got out my phone and sent Kendra a quick text. Nothing yet. Hold.
In less than a minute I received a reply. OK. Be careful.
For the next minute or two I leaned against the Escalade. Took a drink from my tea bottle and wondered what to do next. Would I be waiting for hours for someone to return home? Were they even planning to return at all? The house was in order. Like it was waiting for their return. Maybe by design. To portray an appearance.
Or not.
There was no way of being certain.
Outside I moved back towards the river. Found a little beach area. Some lawn chairs and a campfire. There was a plastic boat resting in the sand. The sort people peddle around in rather than paddle. Up beside a tree there was a red canoe, a nice Old Town. Between my feet and the peddle boat there was a smooth impression in the sand, as if another boat had recently rested there. There were footprints and small impressions everywhere in the sand. No way of telling how recent they were. I followed the deep impression to the river. Looked across the water. Gave my eyes a moment to focus. There was a dark shape with a light outline on the far shore.
A rowboat.
I tightened the sling on my rifle so that it hung snug and vertical against my torso. Went over and lifted the red canoe. Carried it to the sandy beach. Set it down halfway into the water and stepped in. Sat down with an oar. Pushed it hard into the sand. Heard the sand scuffing on the bottom of the canoe and felt it begin to move smoother as it moved out into the open water.
The river wasn’t wide. Maybe thirty-five or forty feet across. Flowing slow and smooth and dark. I crossed it with a few firm strokes of the oar. Beached the canoe and stepped out and climbed a small grade. Knelt down and peered off into thousands of acres of nothingness.
Amid the grass and ferns along the riverbank I noticed a fresh trail. I could smell the sweetness of young broken ferns.
My heart rate started to climb. I had to breathe and tell myself to keep calm. I couldn’t just go thundering after whoever was out there. This wasn’t a brawl. I had to keep calm. Move slowly and see exactly who and what I was up against.
I started off slowly. Taking short steps. Getting a feel for the ground through my boot before shifting my weight. I went on that way for a few minutes. Moved into dense trees and pitch darkness. The obvious trail ended. The ground was all packed pine needles and leaf litter. Springy and difficult to find a track in. No way could I switch on a light.
Kneeling, I took a few deep breaths and checked through my night scope. Way off in the distance I caught a glimpse of light between the trees and brush. I lowered the rifle and watched carefully. I could just barely see the flicker of a distant fire. It wasn’t the flame itself, it was the dance of flames. It was moving on the underside of the heavy treetops. There was virtually no wind. I couldn’t smell a fire. But there definitely was one.
It took me another five minutes of careful walking to get close enough to smell the fire. It was a pine fire. B
ut there was something else to it. Something I couldn’t identify. I could barely see the flames low to the ground. I guessed someone had gone through the effort to dig a deep pit. Maybe with little vent tunnels to fan the flames. Make it burn extremely hot, with less smoke. It would be harder to spot from a distance.
Another two minutes. Now I was close enough to see a figure. It was Tommy Brady. I recognized his posture, his outline. He was alone. Moving around the pit. Working the fire with a long poker stick. There was a spade stabbed into a pile of dirt a few yards away from the pit. Beyond him I saw what looked like a pile of tarps. Some were wrapped, all folded. Some were unwrapped and thrown aside.
I waited there, kneeling. I watched him working. Stirring the fire. Adding wood. Lifting his shirt to wipe his brow. He was working hard.
Then he dropped the poker stick. Bent down and started dragging one of the tarps to the fire’s edge. The fire was raging down in the pit. The pine wood was snapping and hissing and popping. The tarp was crackling and scuffing on the ground. Tommy was straining and breathing hard, unloading the tarp’s contents into the fire.
Which meant he couldn’t hear me. Didn’t have a clue that I was behind him until I was right on him.
He turned his head away from the fire a split second before my arm closed around his neck. He jumped away and I grabbed at his shirt. He flailed and got away. Lost his footing and went down on his stomach. Spun onto his back and kicked at my leg. Spun again and scrambled to his feet and tried to scurry away.
I lunged forward, drawing back my right arm. Clenched my fist, twisting my torso as I moved forward. Swung forward and landed a huge hit. It was the hit I’d been waiting to land on Brady since first grade. My fist smashed into his back, right between the shoulder blades. I heard all the air go out of him in one big burst. His head snapped and he collapsed. Fell forward on his hands and knees and then rolled over on his side, wheezing. He was lucky to be breathing at all. Lucky not to be paralyzed. Lucky I needed information from him. He’d be paying some chiropractor for the rest of his life and still probably wouldn’t have a normal spine again.
