Gone, page 10
I move the light around the hole, illuminating rusted and moldy toys, a broken brick, a dirty kid’s sneaker, and bones. My head reels. I lose my breath.
The light goes out.
I try to breathe, but the ammonia burns my lungs and eyes.
My fingers dig into the dirt wall. I climb, making it a few inches before the dirt crumbles and I fall back down. How many little boys did just this? They desperately climbed, their tiny fingers digging in. They screamed. They cried. They died in fear.
My thumb rolls across the lighter, this time inspecting the walls further up. I see a tree root looping and protruding near the top. Bingo. I jump and miss, landing hard on my leg. My breath hisses in.
I try again, jumping. This time my hand grabs hold of the root. I pull myself up, my teeth gritted. I punch the underside of the plywood. Nothing happens. My muscles shake. I punch again, and again nothing happens. I lose hold, falling and landing on my butt. Something jabs into my hip. I grimace. It’s the broken brick.
Fisting it, I make quick work of jumping and grabbing the root. With the brick, I punch the plywood, and I punch it again. Wood splinters, slivers hitting me in the face. I yank at a chunk, tossing it down into the hole.
With all my force, I punch again with the brick. The skin on my knuckles breaks as my fist meets air. Daylight filters in. I punch again, wincing. Blood smears the wood, but my hand and the brick once again go through. The hole widens. I grab and pull down, breaking away a sizable chunk.
Then another.
And another.
The hole widens enough for me to climb out. I grab hold of the underside of the Mustang. A pipe breaks free. Oil sprays my face. I grab another pipe, pulling myself up and out. Under the Mustang I lie, covered in oil and dirt as I suck air into my lungs.
When my breaths even, I look around for Grandpa’s truck, but of course, I don’t see it. I don’t know where Donna Keller moved it. I also don’t know when she’ll be back.
I stare at the trailer some yards away. Carefully, I scrutinize the windows, but I don’t see movement.
Taking the brick with me, I scramble out from under the car. Quickly, I check the driver’s side for the key, and it’s right where it was moments ago. Perfect.
With the brick up and ready, I make quick work of getting to the side door that leads into the kitchen. It greets me, overly warm and filled with that incessant ticking clock. The tea I drank still sits on the counter. My feet leave oil and dirt tracks as I hurry over to the kitchen table.
I push it to the side and throw back the rug. A square hatch-like door covers the room where Tyler is, secured with a simple barrel bolt.
The bolt releases. I open the hatch, laying it to the side. Wide steps lead down into a small unfinished basement with a few toys, an empty tray with a plate and a glass, red lettering on the wall, and a single mattress.
That’s where I see Tyler, curled in the fetal position, pale, his breaths shallow. My heart contracts. I rush over to him, feeling for a pulse and finding a not-so-steady one. Tears push my eyes as I gather him into my arms. I kiss his pale cheek. “It’s me. I’ve got you. I love you.”
His weight is insignificant but my arm muscles tremble. I hold him tight, making my way out of the basement and back into the kitchen. The room warps. Hang on, Nell. Hang on.
The sound of shuffling feet snaps me back. I turn just as a shadow shifts. I register it right as something slams into my face. I stumble back, losing my grip on Tyler. He slides from my arms and I’m just aware enough to break his fall. My vision blurs. I blink hard. Donna’s face distorts.
With a scream, I blindly launch myself at her. The broken brick waits next to the hatch. I pick it up. I don’t think. I act.
I punch her with it.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
I punch her until she stops moving.
Until she stops breathing.
Until her blood soaks both of us.
Panting, I roll off of her. Blood pulses from my thigh. I make quick work of re-buckling the belt. My teeth clench tight. With Tyler back in my arms, I burst from the side door.
I’m losing too much blood.
I make it to the Mustang. I lay Tyler beside me. The engine turns over. I pray it holds together until we reach the hospital. Storm clouds move in, darkening the area. Sleet begins to fall. Only one light works. It casts a single glow down the country road. The engine roars. The sleet thickens. I fumble with the wipers. They don’t work. My fingers grip the wheel. Blindly, I steer the car.
Beside me, Tyler starts to convulse. I put a hand on him. “I’m right here. We’re almost safe. Stay with me, Tyler. Stay with me.” Don’t die. Don’t die.
The country road zooms past the landfill where a truck is coming from. My brakes don’t work. I lay on the horn. The Mustang barrels past. Another couple of miles and I’ll be to the intersection that leads into town.
Farmland zips past. A few homes, too. Up ahead I see the intersection, with the light red. I pray it turns green by the time I get there.
It doesn’t.
Gripping the wheel tight, I turn left. The car slides. The back-end fishtails. I go with it, allowing it to correct itself. A horn blares. Headlights blind me. Another vehicle narrowly misses me. The Mustang careens off the road, down into a ditch, and bounces back out.
I don’t slow down. I can’t slow down. I veer around a car. My tires skid across a slick area.
Tyler’s convulsing worsens.
My foot slams the gas. I tear down a straightaway. The sleet thickens. “I’m right here, Tyler. I’m right here.”
The Mustang’s engine clangs. I push it as fast as it will go. A few more cars are just up ahead. I swerve in and around them. They honk. I peer out the dirt and sleet-covered windshield. Lights blur and mix in a disorienting prism. Another traffic light, this one red also.
I whip my wheel to the left, taking the sludge-filled medium. The tires spin. The Mustang blasts through the light. An oncoming truck slams on its brakes. I yank the wheel again, regaining the road.
Minutes tick by. My gaze jumps to the gas tank. I’m on empty. Still, I go.
The town comes into view. The highway forks—left toward fast food and right to the hospital. I nearly come up on two wheels as I bear right. The local high school flashes past. One more mile. There, there it is. The hospital sign illuminates the wintry sky. I roll up on the curb and throw my body over Tyler’s as the Mustang collides with a wall of bushes. The car grinds to a stop.
With my brother in my arms, I lurch into the Emergency Room. “Help us!”
EIGHTEEN
Saturday, 1 p.m.
My lashes flutter open. My bandaged and elevated leg is the first thing I see. Sheriff Owens is the second. He sits in a chair beside my hospital bed.
“Hello,” he says.
“Where’s my brother?” I try to sit up.
“Tyler’s safe and well. You’re in a hospital.”
A window behind him shows a clear and sunny sky. “What time is it? How long have I been out?”
“It’s one in the afternoon on Saturday. You had surgery to remove the bullet in your thigh. You also have a broken nose. I’ve been here a few minutes. I wanted to be the first one to speak with you.”
“Donna Keller. She’s the one who took all those boys. She and her husband. He’s the body I found in the storm cellar. You’ve got to get out to Donna Keller’s place. There’s a hole in the ground with remains. Carl Keller is really Randy McMillan.”
Carl Keller. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Where’s Mom?” I try to get up again.
The sheriff stands. “Stay still.”
“But—”
“I know everything.”
I’m not sure he does, so I remain quiet.
Even though the door is closed, he lowers his voice. “Carl Keller, aka Randy McMillan, is dead. Your mother tortured and killed him for infor—”
“No, she did—”
He holds a hand up. “Yes, she did. That is her story and that is the one she is insisting on. Do you understand me? You are all Tyler has left. We know Carl kidnapped Luca and Tyler and helped with so many others. Forensics is out at the Keller property now excavating the place for remains, though with the frozen soil and the lye treatment in the hole, it’s going to take time. We confirmed Carl’s real identity and the McMillan family has already been notified. The other families will be too once evidence is collected. I knew your grandfather and Donna Keller were having an affair. It’s why I kept my distance, out of respect for your grandfather. Now, I wish I wouldn’t have. Those missing boys haunted him. I worked on a few of the cases with him. I’m glad he’s not alive to know Donna and her husband were the abductors.”
He knew.
“Evan Lager remains a mystery. He’s not one of the missing boys. He does share DNA with Donna though. We’ve figured that much out. Something tells me you can fill in the blanks?”
With a hand steadier than expected, I reach for the water on my side table. After several long swallows, I hold it in my lap. “You know as much as I do.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t believe me.
That’s okay. Though Grandpa had his faults, that secret is safe with me.
“Okay, fine. We’ll drop the topic of Evan Lager.”
“I do know he was kind to the boys,” I say. “That doesn’t excuse his participation.”
“No,” Owens agrees.
“I killed Donna Keller.”
“In self-defense.”
“My first punch knocked her out. I didn’t have to keep going.”
“Yes, you did. Do you understand? Self-defense. She was coming after you. You had no choice.”
The door opens and in walks a nurse pushing Tyler in a wheelchair. Remnants of shock cloud his eyes. He tries to smile, but the effort falls from his lips.
I smile. “Hi, Tyler.”
His voice comes withered and shaky. “Hi.”
“He’s doing good,” the nurse says. “He’ll be out of here in a few days. He wanted to see you.”
My brother stares at me, unable to speak, almost like I’m an apparition versus his sister. There’s a darkness in his eyes that unsettles me.
To me only, Sheriff Owens whispers, “I will do everything in my power for your mom. You are all Tyler has now. Remember that.”
NINETEEN
One Year Later
A female security guard presses a button. The door to the courtyard swings open. Tyler rushes out ahead of me and straight into Mom’s arms. She hugs him hard and kisses him.
With a pleasant smile, she reaches out an arm for me.
After we say hello, we sit beside each other at a picnic table. Tyler skips off to see the puppet show. Once a month, Mom’s facility does a family day with boxed lunches, games, and puppets. The patients with ninety days of good behavior are allowed to attend if a family member agrees to come, too.
We never miss one.
“How are you doing?” I ask her.
“Good. I’m on kitchen duty for the next thirty days. I like the girls in there. Should be okay. Owens says you snagged a spot on a task force. That’s amazing. I’m proud of you.”
“He pulled strings. He’s still trying to make up for mishandling Tyler’s abduction.”
“Doesn’t matter. You deserve it.”
Truth is, I wavered on the decision to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps, and in the end decided yes. I graduated from the academy six months ago and have officially been on the job an equal amount of time. I like it more than I imagined I would.
I want to be the one who doesn’t let things slide through the cracks. I will make a difference.
Mom says, “He visits me, you know.”
“I know.” Because of yet more strings he pulled, Mom’s second-degree murder charge got her placed in a mental hospital versus prison. I’m grateful, but still. Too little, too late.
“And night classes?” she asks. “Going okay?”
“Yes, but at this rate I’ll be your age when I graduate.”
“Nah, it’ll go by quicker than you think.” Straightening her back, she takes my hand, seemingly possessed by newfound strength. She’s like that every time I visit her. “Nell, you need to come to terms with me being here. I murdered Randy McMillan. I’m guilty.”
I nod, because I know she needs me to be strong.
“How is Grace?” she asks, changing the subject. “The last time you were here you said she was struggling with her part of things. What we did, we had to for the boys. Grace knows that. I know that. You should know that, too.”
“Grace is getting there. We talk nearly every day. Wedding plans are keeping her focused on something else.”
“But do you know that? Because of you, those boys are alive.”
Again, I nod. But I will always regret Mom is locked away for something I put in motion. I will also always respect her and admire her for this selfless act. “You’re not fragile. Do you know that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grandpa told me that. He told me you were fragile and that I needed to take care of you. He was wrong.” I squeeze her hand.
We fall silent after that, staring at each other. Finally, I ask the question that has weighed heavy on me since speaking with Nancy McMillan. “Mom, did Grandpa abuse you?”
To my surprise, she doesn’t break eye contact with me. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Did he?”
“Your grandpa was a complicated man. He sure loved you, though.”
Even though I suspected what her answer would be, disbelief still courses through me, followed quickly by intense love. This woman in front of me is strong and brave. In this careful moment, so much about her makes sense now. I spent a lifetime loving her, but not respecting her as I should. I never bothered to understand her. I only ever questioned her. Early on, I became her parent. I never allowed her to be mine.
I wanted to grow up and be just like Grandpa.
Now, I want to honor and emulate my mother.
“I love you.” I hug her. “I’m so sorry Grandma left you alone with him. I love you so very much, Mom. I hope you know that.”
“I never wanted you to know. He did love you most.”
“I don’t care. My loyalty is to you. Always.”
Pulling back, I look into her teary eyes. Her mouth wobbles with a happy smile. Tyler runs over, sliding between us on the picnic bench. We open our box lunches and eat. We laugh. We play tag with Tyler.
It’s not a perfect life, but it’s a good one.
It’s our life, and I will cherish every moment of it.
Don’t miss the next book in the series, Silence, where Nell is now Detective Brach.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. E. Green is the award-winning, best-selling author of young adult and adult fiction. She grew up in Tennessee where she dreaded all things reading and writing. She didn’t read her first book for enjoyment until she was twenty-five. After that, she was hooked! When she’s not writing, she loves traveling and hanging out with a rogue armadillo that frequents her coastal Florida home.
THE NELL BRACH SERIES
Gone
Silence
Unseen
Turn the page for an excerpt of Silence, book two.
SILENCE
Monday, 7 a.m.
My arms pump, sweat dampens my back, and my long legs devour the six-mile, mulch-covered trail that circles the town’s new park.
Up ahead women and men perform downward dog in the sunrise yoga group that meets here every Monday morning, weather permitting.
Wearing a green hoodie, a maintenance man on a four-wheeler passes me. He cuts off left through the grass, heading toward the soccer field where another maintenance man rides a mower, sending up the scent of fresh-cut grass.
A man on a mountain bike emerges from the trees on the right. Though it’s a chilly April morning, he’s wearing biking shorts and a form-fitted gray tank top. Through his amber-tinted athletic glasses, we make eye contact. I slow my pace, waving him on. He zips in front, then coasts the grassy hill down to the parking lot. A mixture of alcohol, dryer sheets, and cologne floats in his wake.
Strapped to my left arm just above the elbow, my phone rings. Without pausing, I glance at the number. I already wear wireless buds that emit only white noise—my choice for running.
I press the talk button. “Detective Brach here.” It’s a title I’ve had for six months now. I’m not sure I’ll ever get tired of saying it.
“We’ve got a body.”
Monday, 8:15 a.m.
Freshly showered with wet hair pulled into a ponytail, I drive my white Ford Interceptor up to the line of trees already sectioned off with yellow police tape. I slide from the SUV. Around my neck, I already wear my badge. Not that I need it. Most everyone in law enforcement here in White Quail, Tennessee—and the surrounding area—knows who I am.
At twenty-eight, I’m not only the youngest person to make detective in the county, but also the first woman.
Sheriff Owens catches my eye, waving me over. Early fifties, dark hair, ridiculously good-looking, and still resembling the quarterback he used to be when he went to high school with my mother. He took over the department when my grandfather, the former sheriff, passed away. Owens and I had a rocky start, but we’ve since developed a mutual respect.
Beside the sheriff stands a tall man in his early thirties. Like me, he wears jeans, but that’s where the similarity stops. Unlike my hiking shoes, his gray cowboy boots shine either with newness or a recent polish. And instead of my usual white windbreaker, an open black leather jacket shows a tucked-in gray shirt with a matching gray-striped tie. His badge sits secured at his waist to a leather belt. His brown hair has been combed and gelled into a slicked-back style.
