Gone, page 2
Splitting up, we move fast, checking each room and closet, calling out, “Tyler? Luca?” We double-time it, looking under beds, and meet up at the garage.
She flicks on the light to show a space full of surplus toilet paper, canned goods, and boxed food. “Boys?” she yells.
“They’re not here.”
“Maybe they’re in your grandfather’s shed.”
That’s not likely. No one goes inside Grandpa’s shed. Still, though, we waste no time backtracking their neighborhood over to ours. We run into our moms.
“Anything?” my mom asks.
“No.” Breathing heavily, I push past her, running to the shed. I note the usual sturdy lock securing the doors. I yank at it anyway.
“What’s in there?” Grace asks.
“I think just Grandpa’s tools and hunting supplies.”
“Oh, God,” Olivia mutters.
“I don’t believe this.” Mom turns a circle. “How can they not be in either place?”
“The station wagon.” I grab Grace’s arm.
“What station wagon?” Olivia asks.
“It had bumper stickers all over it. They were being nosy,” Grace says. “It was parked out in front of that house for sale a few down from ours. It drove off really fast when we caught them.”
“Come to think of it, I saw it when we first pulled in, too.” I’m already racing back toward their neighborhood. Seconds later, I burst from the pass-through.
My feet once again eat up the ground as I haul ass toward the freshly painted white house with the "For Sale" sign. At the front door, I come to a hard stop. “Hello?” I bang my fist. “Is anyone in there?”
I try the knob, finding it locked.
“There!” Grace shouts from behind me. “The station wagon was right there. It was parked right there, Mom. It had dark windows and bumper stickers, and it drove off fast like it was up to no good.”
My mom races up beside me, out of breath. “Where are they, Nell?”
“I don’t know.” Cupping my eyes, I look in the nearest window.
“Call 911!” Olivia screams.
But I don’t wait for that. I race back over to Grandpa’s house, jump in his truck, and slam into reverse.
I will find that station wagon.
TWO
Saturday, 8 p.m.
I’m not sure how long I drive in and out of neighborhoods, up and down roads, and back and forth through town. But it must be hours because day transitions to night and sleet begins to fall.
My phone rings. It’s Mom. “Anything?” I ask.
“No,” she whispers. “The cops are looking for that station wagon. Where are you?”
“I’m about to get on the interstate.” On the dash, the gas light flashes red. Up ahead near the entrance to I-81 there’s an empty station with two pumps and a small building that houses the attendant. “I’m getting gas,” I say as I pull in. “I’ll call you if I—” Darkness cloaks the back side of the parking lot, but still, I see it—a vehicle facing thick woods.
“What is it?”
“Mom, it’s here. The station wagon is here. Call the cops.” I rattle off the location and hang up.
From the glove box, I grab the full-size metal flashlight, and from under the driver’s seat I find the hunting knife Grandpa gave me.
With both in hand, I throw open the driver’s door. My phone rings again, but I ignore it, sprinting past the attendant.
My pace slows as I approach the rear of the station wagon. I’m about to flick on my light when the engine roars to life. Oh hell, no. I unsheathe the hunting knife and jab it hard, twice, into the back wheel.
Air hisses out.
The driver’s door flings open and with it a cloud of cigarette smoke barrels out. Turning on my flashlight, I direct the beam. A small man with thick glasses and disheveled brown hair squints at me. “Why’d you do that?” he asks.
“Get out of the car.”
He blinks, but he doesn’t move.
With the light still blinding him, I move alongside the station wagon and try the handle of the back door. It opens to a seat covered in fast-food wrappers.
The man coughs.
“Where are they?” I move to the rear hatch, trying the handle and finding it unlocked, too. Carpet spans the interior with piles of clothes. From this angle, I have a clear shot of the entire station wagon. The boys aren’t here.
I shine my light past the wagon and into the woods. “Tyler? Luca?” I call out.
The man coughs again, bringing up phlegm.
“Is that why you’re here? Did you put them in the woods?” I slam the hatch and round the car back to the driver’s side. “I said get out of the car.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
Grabbing him by the crown of his head, I drag him out of the seat. He trips and lands facedown on the wet pavement.
The beam of my flashlight sweeps the edge of the woods, illuminating a slurry of leaves and slushy mud. “Tyler!” I scream. “Luca!”
The man groans. “Why are you yelling?”
I come down next to him. My fingers dig into his hair. Lifting his head, I put my hunting knife right in front of his eyes. “I swear to God, I will cut you. Where is my brother?”
He doesn’t respond. He looks completely fried.
“What’s going on?”
Turning, I see an old groggy man with messy gray hair. He stands dressed in overalls and backlit by the flickering florescent light coming from the two pumps. His bloodshot eyes move from me to the station wagon and then over to the man still lying face down.
The groggy guy takes a hesitant step back. Sirens pierce the air and blue lights flash.
Sheathing my knife and tucking it away, I stand up just as two cop cars catch the three of us in their lights.
One of the cops hauls the driver of the station wagon off the ground. He pushes him up against the vehicle. “What is your name?”
The guy thinks about that question entirely too long. “Carl Keller.”
Shining a light in his face, the cop studies him. I stand several yards away, really getting a good look at him now. He’s short and skinny, and I’d guess twenty-something. He seems dirty and spacey.
Blankly, he stares into the flashlight beam.
“Where are the two little boys?” the cop demands.
“I don’t know.” He smacks his lips. “Can I have something to drink?”
“What are you on?”
“I don’t know.” Carl looks past the beam and over to me. “She punctured my tire. Why did she do that?”
“Because you were about to leave, you asshole.”
The second cop approaches, having just checked the license tag. “It’s registered to a Donna Keller.”
“Who’s Donna Keller?” the first cop asks.
Carl doesn’t answer.
“Where’s your license?” the second cop asks.
“Don’t have one,” Carl says.
“Driving without a license.” The first cop turns Carl face-first against the wagon. As he reads him his rights, he places him in handcuffs.
Cop number two calls things in. The groggy gas attendant man goes back to his small building. And I cross back over to Grandpa’s truck.
Donna Keller.
Shouldn’t be hard to find.
A quick search of the white pages shows Donna Keller lives out in the country almost to the next county. Google maps take me down a long road, then a short one that cuts along a landfill, ending at several acres of unkempt land with a double-wide, squalid-yellow trailer.
Once upon a time, this place might have been nice, but not now. Other than a beat-up Mustang parked in the side yard, it doesn’t look occupied. But a light coming from within tells me it is. It’s one of those places that’s so far out and isolated that no one would hear if someone screamed.
That thought does not sit well with me.
I pull down her short driveway and park behind the Mustang.
My shoes sink into the muddy yard as I cross over to the front door.
A seventy-something-year-old woman opens it before I knock. She wears a burgundy shawl that she wraps around her shoulders against the cold. With long silver and black hair curled away from her face, she has a regal air to her.
“May I help you?”
“Ma’am, my name is Nell Brach. I’m looking for my little brother and his friend. Their names are Tyler and Luca.” I pull Tyler’s photo up on my phone and show it to her. “Have you seen him?”
She studies the photo. “No.”
“They were seen near Carl Keller’s station wagon that is registered to you.”
She doesn’t seem surprised by this as she opens the door and invites me in. “It’s cold. Let’s talk in here.”
After wiping my shoes, I walk into a small living room cramped with old furniture. A mixed-breed dog lays asleep on a frayed couch. She sits beside the dog, nodding for me to take a wood-backed chair directly across from her.
The room is warm, musty, and filled only by the ticking of a clock. I want to take my coat off, but I don’t.
“Carl’s a good boy,” she says. “A little slow, but good. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“How are you related?”
“He’s my grandson.” On the table next to her sits a framed photo of a young Donna circa 1970s. Youthful and beautiful, she stands out in front of this trailer when it was brand new. A shirtless hippie-haired man has an arm around her, smiling broadly. She sees where I’m looking. “That’s my husband. He’s long gone now, but that was him. Carl loved him like a father.”
“Where are Carl’s parents?”
“Drunk driver hit them. Long time ago now. Carl was just a tiny thing. He’s been with us ever since.”
With a nod, I look around the overly decorated, outdated room. “Ma’am, have you already talked to the cops?”
“I have. Yes. They called right before you showed up. I expect I’ll get a visit from them as well.”
Well, that explains her lack of shock over all of this. “How old is Carl?”
“Twenty-one.”
Same age as me. “What do you mean he’s ‘a little slow’?”
“He was in the accident that took his parents' lives. Banged his head pretty hard. We think that’s what stunted his growth, too.”
My phone buzzes with a call from Grace. “I need to take this. Thank you for your time.” I see myself out as I answer the call. “What do you know?”
“They’re putting together a search party,” she tells me. “In the woods that surround that gas station where you found the wagon. Meet you there?”
“Yes.”
Cops and volunteers swarm the gas station lot. Wearing orange vests, people head off into the woods. A constellation of flashlights moves through the night. Through the trees on the left, I see the interstate with intermittent traffic. It would be easy to jump on there and disappear with the boys.
Then why didn’t Carl do that? Did he hand the boys off to someone else?
Grace catches sight of me and waves me over to park next to a beat-up Jeep. Her fiancé, Matthew, is with her. They’re both already dressed in orange vests and holding flashlights.
On the seat beside me lays the full-sized metal one I used before. I grab it and meet them by the Jeep.
Matthew offers me a firm and warm hug. He looks exactly like he did when I was here six months ago—big, strong, and reliable. “I’m so sorry this is happening, Nell.”
“Thank you.” I take the orange vest Grace hands me. “Where’s Olivia and my mom?”
“They stayed back, each in one house, in case the boys return.”
I try not to be annoyed by that. We need all the help we can get. Flicking on my light, I step into the woods. “Let’s go.”
The three of us spread out, joining the rest. With measured and cautious steps, we begin scanning the ground…
THREE
Sunday, 6 a.m.
With the woods combed and nothing found, the search party dissipates.
Exhausted, I follow Grace and Matthew home. They pass Grandpa’s neighborhood, going one turn down to theirs.
A blue sheriff’s car sits in our driveway, the bottom half covered in sludge. I park the truck in our yard, giving it room to leave.
Down the street, a few neighbors are out, dressed in thick clothes, drinking coffee and gossiping. They look up at me and sober.
In the house, I take off my muddy shoes and wool coat, leaving both by the front door. I find Mom and the new sheriff sitting at Grandpa’s round kitchen table.
Sheriff Owens took over when my grandpa died. I’ve only met him once, at Grandpa’s memorial service. With dark hair and clean-shaven, he’s my mom’s age. Grandpa didn’t care for Owens. Cocky son of a bitch, he said more than once.
“It’s nice to see you again, Nell.” Owens extends a hand that I shake. “Jill and I were just talking through things.”
My mom, Jill, and the sheriff went to high school together. According to Mom, back then he was super popular and Mr. Athlete. He and my mom didn’t run in the same circles.
I turn to her, finding her eyes closed and her head back, looking more exhausted than I feel.
A carafe of coffee sits in the center of the table with a box of donuts beside it, uneaten. I help myself to a glazed one and pour a mug from the carafe before sliding into the chair beside Mom. I take a sip, finding it stale and cool. I wish I had coconut milk to put in it. I take another drink, followed by a bite of donut.
“What do we know?” I ask Sheriff Owens.
“We arrested Carl Keller for driving without a license. That’ll allow us to hold him for forty-eight hours. Our lab tech found nothing in the station wagon. It was filthy, but none of that filth belonged to the boys.”
Somehow this news doesn’t surprise me. “They could’ve been wearing all their winter clothes, right? So, no hair fibers because of their hats and no prints because of gloves.”
He smiles a little. “I heard you’re our legacy enrollment.”
“Yes, that’s correct. I’m set to start the academy after the New Year.”
To his credit, he doesn’t discount me. “If there was a struggle, we would have found something.”
“But not if Carl transported them only. If he knocked them out, they wouldn’t have struggled.”
“Theoretically.”
“Did you already search the grandmother’s home?”
“Yes, and I know you went over there. Nell, it’s important that you not get involved in this investigation. It could ruin things in court when the time comes.”
Opening her eyes, Mom lifts her head. She drinks coffee, not speaking. I hand her a donut, but she shakes her head. Despite the worn-out shock in her expression, she’s composed. Doggedly so. Photos scatter the kitchen table, mostly of Tyler, but some of Luca.
Picking one up, she hands it to Sheriff Owens. “Use this one. You can really see his sweet face and eyes in it.”
Nodding, he takes the picture.
Mom’s eyes fill with tears. Just seeing hers makes my eyes heat, too. But I can’t cry. If I do, I won’t stop. “Excuse me,” I mutter, going down the hall to the bathroom. I close the door and run cold water to coat my face and neck.
When I feel more in control, I turn the water off and breathe. From my wrist, I slide off a tan band and pull my light hair into a ponytail. I take a second to stare at my reflection, mentally fortifying myself. I look exhausted.
A plastic crate sits on the floor with our bathroom supplies, yet to be unpacked. Right on top rests Tyler’s Spider-Man toothbrush, still in its travel holder.
Back in the kitchen, the sheriff is checking his phone. Thankfully, Mom’s got her tears in control.
“You watch,” Mom says, her voice shaky, but oddly filled with humor. “They’re going to walk right through that door any minute. They were playing hide-and-seek. You watch.”
Owens lays his phone down. “You have any reason to believe they ran away?”
“No,” I say. “They were—are—happy boys.”
Mom’s humor dies. Frowning, she looks toward the front door. “Do you think they ran away?”
“No, Mom.”
Outside, the faint sound of a garbage truck circles the neighborhood. The backup beeping drifts into our house.
“How many cases have you solved?” I ask.
Humbly, he smiles, showing none of the cockiness Grandpa complained about. “Plenty. Know, too, that I’m not handing this case off. I’m personally spear-heading it.”
“Do you have a family?” I ask next.
“No.” Leaning forward, he looks at me with unwavering conviction. “I’m going to find your brother.”
I try to find comfort in those words. I want to believe him. “We think they left here and went over to Luca’s house. He had pirate stuff he wanted to show Tyler.”
“Yes, I’m heading over there next.”
“I’m telling you, that station wagon was just sitting there. And when we found the boys looking in it, it drove off really quickly, like it was up to no good. I saw it when we first arrived, too. It passed us, coming from the opposite direction. There’s another neighborhood on the other side of the road. It could have been casing the area looking for little kids.”
“I understand, but without evidence.” Owens pauses. “I’ve talked with Carl Keller. He doesn’t seem capable of abducting two boys in broad daylight and then making them disappear. Did you know he has brain damage?”
Shoving back from the table, I stand. “Brain damage or not, anyone is capable.”
The sheriff’s voice comes calm. “I know what you’re saying, and we’re considering all possibilities. No one is crossed off the list yet. Let me do my job, okay? I’m good at it. I’m going to repeat what I said a moment ago, it is important that you not get involved in the investigation.”
I don’t answer. I’m far from satisfied. “He stays in custody until Tyler and Luca are found, correct?”
