Gone, page 3
“As I’ve already said, we can only hold him for forty-eight hours.”
“That’s not long enough.”
“Why don’t you sit back down?”
I remain standing, my gaze boring desperately into his. “Two little boys are missing. Surely that is worth you breaking whatever rule you need to break to keep Carl Keller locked up.”
Owens considers my words.
“Just be sure. Please.”
The sheriff stands. “Time for me to talk with Luca’s family. Jill, we’ll be in touch.” With that, he walks out.
“He didn’t answer you,” Mom says.
“I know.”
FOUR
Sunday, 5 p.m.
Twenty-four hours missing and Sheriff Owens has exactly shit. Has he even bothered to check the sex offenders in the area? Because I’m looking at the list right now.
There are three who live within a ten-mile radius of Grandpa’s home.
The first one is fifty-nine, muscled, and wearing workout clothes when he answers the door.
“Sir, my name is Nell Brach and I’m looking for my younger brother, Tyler.” I show him a photo on my phone. “Have you seen him?”
“No.” The man sighs, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. “What I did was a very long time ago. And consensual. I paid my dues.”
A woman steps up beside him, a toddler on her hip. “What’s going on?”
I repeat myself, showing her the photo.
“We don’t know anything about this. You are welcome to come into our home and look around. We have nothing to hide. My husband is a good man. What we did when I was sixteen and he was twenty was consensual. My father should have never brought charges against him. We’ve been married thirty years now. We have three children and two grandchildren. When will this all blow over?”
I back away. “My apologies.”
The second is twenty-seven, skinny, and works as a fry cook at Waffle House.
He’s shaking his head before I finish telling him who I am.
“I know about the missing boys,” he says. “I’ve got nothing to do with it. I was working when they went missing. Ask anyone in this place. Plus, I would never touch a little boy.”
Yeah, but you’ll touch a little girl, I want to say but don’t.
“He’s telling the truth,” an acne-scarred waitress says. “We worked a double yesterday. And we’re rolling into another one tonight.
The third is sixty-six and a former priest. Father Richards, arrested for molesting altar boys. Though he did his time and has been out of jail for twenty years now, he’s closest to the profile.
My headlights wash over a cheaply built gray house with a flickering light on inside. I park Grandpa’s truck behind one just as old as his. With a check of my notes to make sure I’m at the correct address, I down the last of the coffee I bought and open the driver’s door.
Icy air drifts along my neck. Shivering, I cross over the unkempt yard. One step up takes me to the front door. A cracked bell produces no sound. Exhaustion moves over me, pissing me off. I don’t have time to be tired.
I knock hard, yelling, “Hello?”
Silence greets me.
To the right sits a window and I peer inside. A television plays a black and white movie. Stacks of magazines and newspapers pile the place in hoarding capacity. In between two stacks, a bald man dressed in pajamas lies face down, an empty whiskey bottle cradled in the crook of his arm.
I bang on the window. He doesn’t stir.
Back over to the front door, and I try the knob, finding it unlocked. I move inside. Clutter surrounds me, and I navigate the piles over to the man. Pressing fingers to his grizzly neck, I check for a pulse, finding it steadier than expected.
He’s snoring.
More liquor bottles fill the area, some empty, others full. They’re on the television stand, the side table, and propped against stacks of papers.
“Mind if I look around?”
He chokes on a snore. I take that as a yes.
I walk through a door into the kitchen, finding more stacks of papers and magazines, a sink full of empty bottles, and an abandoned puzzle on the table.
Books pile a narrow hall. I shuffle down it. It leads me to a bedroom with an extra-long twin bed covered in blankets. An open door shows a bathroom crusted in yellow. Through the bathroom sits another bedroom used for storage with boxes towering to the ceiling.
I sidestep the boxes and walk over to the window. One exterior light shows a tiny overgrown backyard surrounded by a chickenwire fence. I’m about to backtrack and get out of here when a storm cellar catches my eye. It’s right below the window I’m currently standing at. A chain winds its handles with a lock securing it. With the darkness, I can’t tell for sure, but the chain looks new.
Something about that bothers me. For such a rundown place, why is the chain new?
In the living room, Richards has stirred, rolling over to his side. I leave him be as I retrieve my flashlight from the truck. One of Grandpa’s tool boxes sits in the bed. I open it, hoping for a bolt cutter, and find a crow bar instead.
Carrying the light and the crowbar, I find my way to the backyard. Upon closer inspection, yes, the chain is new. So new it sparkles. I don’t like that at all.
A couple of hard tugs with the crow bar, and it snaps free.
I throw it and the lock aside before wedging open the double, storm cellar doors. Old and heavy, they creak as I do so.
The smell of damp earth greets me, as does total darkness.
Squatting down, I shine my light, discovering no ladder and a five-foot drop. I hold the cellar frame, leaning further in and sweeping my light. The beam flashes off metal shelves with rusted canned goods and lands on something in the back corner covered in canvas.
It’s not the canvas that makes me move, it’s the shoe peeking out the bottom.
I drop down into the cellar, landing hard. My light shines bright on the shoe.
I move closer.
As I do, I note not one shoe, but two, their toes side-by-side. Grabbing the canvas, I pull. A corpse greets me, skeletal, long since dead.
Wildly, I scramble back. My heart bangs uneven and thick as I stare at the person who was long ago tied to a chair and left to die. Teeth, bones, sinew, and clothing are all that’s left of the man. Or woman.
Around the neck is a necklace with a peace sign. It’s the last thing I see before I clamber up and out.
I come face to face with Father Richards.
Grabbing the crow-bar from the ground, I swing it up. “Stay back.”
Richards looks terrified, like the cellar is the gateway to hell and I’m about to push him in.
“No.” He shakes his head. “No. No. No.”
“Who is that?” I demand, fighting to keep my voice strong.
“I-I don’t know.” His face crumbles. He falls to his knees. “I don’t know. He said his name was Tom Lager, but I think he gave me a fake name.”
“Why is he in your cellar?”
Richards starts to cry. Tears stream his face. He shakes his head. “He knew I used to be a priest. He came to me for confession. Said he’d taken some boys, right in broad daylight. Did bad things to them. Even buried them on his property after they died. I-I’ve done bad things, too. But I’ve never killed anyone. Then he started talking about the next one he planned to take. I lost it.”
“When was this?” I demand.
Richards sobs. “Long time ago. Five years now.”
“What. The. Hell. Is going on here?”
My light swings up and into the face of Sheriff Owens.
FIVE
Monday, 10 a.m.
I spent most of the night at the county station being questioned by Sheriff Owens.
Sheriff: Why were you there?
Me: Because he’s on the sex offender list.
Sheriff: Why did you break into his cellar?
Me: Because I thought I heard someone calling for help.
Sheriff: Did you enter his home?
Me: No.
Sheriff: Who did he say the person was?
Me: Tom Lager.
Sheriff: Did you also question the other sex offenders in the area?
Me: Yes.
Sheriff: You do know this is my investigation?
Me: Yes.
Sheriff: Why were you there?
Me: You already asked me that. Why don’t you let me go, have someone else handle Richards and the corpse, and work on finding my brother?
The questions continued. Some I gave truths, others lies.
Eventually, he lets me leave. Come morning, I trudge into our home. After a hot shower, I manage to sleep for a few hours.
When I come down the hall to the kitchen, I find Mom on the phone. She looks at me through bloodshot eyes.
My heart stops. “What?”
“I just talked to a friend at the station. They’re letting him go,” she whispers, hanging up the phone. “Carl Keller. Today.”
My tires squeal as I pull from our house. I see Grace running from her neighborhood to ours through the opening in the trees. She stops when she sees me, shock on her face. She’s heard Carl’s being released, too.
I roll my window down. “I’ll be back!” I yell and she nods.
I weave through town, spinning fresh sleet as I go. Minutes later, I slide into a slot at the county police station.
A young, uniformed cop escorts Donna Keller and her grandson out the front door.
One reporter huddles under an umbrella. Overhead a gray sky lets go of more frozen rain. The reporter approaches Donna and Carl, a recorder out.
I throw open my door and jump out.
“How are you two related?” the reporter asks.
Donna rubs her grandson’s back. “Don’t say anything.”
“What is your response to the missing boys?” The reporter pushes forward, insistent, blocking Carl’s path. “Are you innocent?”
Donna wraps an arm around him, pulling him in.
The uniformed cop waves the reporter back. “Let them pass.”
My stride is quick and sure as I cross the lot. The young cop sees me coming and his eyes widen. “Shit,” he mumbles, obviously knowing my connection to all of this.
The reporter swerves her attention now on me.
“Stay back.” The cop holds a hand up.
I ignore him, pushing past and coming face to face with Carl Keller. “I just want to ask a question.”
The cop grabs me. I yank free. “I said I just wanted to ask him a question. What’s the problem?”
The young cop looks over his shoulder, probably hoping help will come.
“Where are they?” I demand, getting in Carl’s face.
Donna moves, putting herself between her grandson and me. With tears gathering in his eyes, Carl backs away, shaking his head.
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
He runs.
The cop lunges for me right as I take off after him. Donna makes a grab, and I push past. The reporter moves, making no effort to block my path.
I tackle Carl between two cop cars, roll him over, and fist the front of his coat. He looks up at me through those thick glasses with vacant eyes.
“They only cried once,” he whispers.
The words freeze me in place. Hands dig into my arms and shoulders, pulling me away. I stare at Carl, still lying on the wet cement.
Did anyone hear that?
I struggle against whoever’s holding me, realizing there’s more than one. The young cop now has help. It serves to ratchet me up, not subdue me, and I yank hard against the multiple holds.
“Did anyone hear what he said?” I ask, my voice sounding crazy, even to me.
Zip ties go around my wrists. I fight against them. “DID ANYONE HEAR WHAT HE SAID?”
I’m forced face down onto a nearby cop car, and I watch through helpless eyes as Donna gets Carl up and another cop whisks them away.
“We all knew and respected your grandfather,” says Sheriff Owens. “Which is why I’m letting that scene outside pass. I’m going to cut those cuffs. You’re going to behave. Correct?”
“Yes.”
He moves around the back of me and as soon as he cuts the ties, I stand up.
“Sit down.”
With a sigh, I do. He takes the spot behind his desk. No papers or files scatter the top. It’s too neat, and that unsettles me. Shouldn’t a person leading an active investigation have a messy desk?
Across the top, he studies me for way too long. But I make myself wait for his words.
Finally, they come. “Yes, Carl Keller has been released, but under instructions that he won’t leave the area.”
“He said, ‘They only cried once.’” I jab a finger at the closed office door. “Isn’t that reason enough to haul him back in here?”
“We will definitely look into what you claim he said.”
“What do you mean, what I ‘claim’?” My gaze pierces him. “He said it.”
“What I need, Nell, is for you to go home. Your mom needs you.”
“You told me you would keep Carl Keller in custody. Now he’s free. He said it. ‘They only cried once.’”
“Did anybody hear him other than you?”
Bitterly, I shake my head.
“And you’re absolutely sure that’s what he said?”
“You think I’m making this up?” My hands shake. I ball them into fists. The sheriff notes the movement. I look him in the eye. “Can I go?”
“Yes, but promise me you will go home.”
I’m not promising him anything.
I do go home, though. In Grandpa’s former bedroom, I find Mom curled up on the bed, hysterically sobbing, with Grace holding on to her. Manic terror fills the air. For a desperate second, I fear they’ve heard the worst.
But when Grace looks at me through destitute, freaked-out eyes, I realize she’s found Mom this way.
“The seam on Tyler’s jacket was ripped,” Mom moans. “I told him it didn’t matter. But it does. Everything matters. Oh, God, why hasn’t he come home?” Mom cries. “It’s been two days.” She clings to Grace. “Make him come home. I don’t understand. Make him come home.”
Motioning Grace to get up, I take her place. I hold Mom while she cries. Grace stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching.
For long moments, Mom weeps. It’s all I can do to hold her and control my own tears.
Eventually, she pulls back. “I need to sleep. Find my pills, Nell.”
“On the nightstand,” Grace whispers. “I already found them for her.”
Reaching across Mom, I grab the bottle.
“Give me two. I just want to sleep. Please. I can’t be awake anymore. It hurts too bad.”
She’s taken two before, so I comply. With trembling hands, she swallows them dry. Grace disappears and comes back with a glass of water. I give it to Mom, and she drinks half.
Finally, she lies back. I stroke her hair. Gradually, she calms. I’m about to get up when she grabs my forearm.
Through accusing eyes, she glares at me. “You were supposed to be watching him.”
My mouth opens. I start to answer, but nothing comes out. I feel sick with shame. She’s right. I should’ve checked on them. I should’ve known.
I turn away from her stare. My eyes meet Grace’s, and hers tear up. I leave the bedroom and walk past my friend into the hallway. Leaning against the wall, I duck my head and take a second.
“She didn’t mean it,” Grace quietly says.
“Yes, she did.” With a sigh, I look at her. “Where’s your mom?”
“At home, staring at the phone.”
“I’m heading back out. Can you handle both of our moms?”
Grace doesn’t answer. Her gaze begs me not to leave. I hold her stare, guilt festering inside of me—about the boys, about leaving Grace here to handle Mom, about Olivia over in her house, grieving as well.
I hug my friend. “I’m scared, too.”
Crying, she clings to me. We stand in the hallway, grieving for possible news to come, but also in denial that this is our world now.
A phone ringing from the kitchen pulls us apart.
I find it next to the coffee pot. I don’t recognize the number but it’s this area code. “Hello?”
There’s a pause, then, “Nell, this is Sheriff Owens. Is your mom around?”
“She’s sleeping. Please tell me you followed up with Carl Keller. Please tell me you arrested him again.”
“I’m leaving their home now. I don’t normally make calls like this, but out of respect for your grandfather, I am going above and beyond on this. I did question Carl. He said he didn’t say anything to you in the parking lot. I pushed him hard. He didn’t budge. We can’t waste any more time on this guy. I’ll let you know when I have something new. I—”
I hang up.
Outside, I sit in Grandpa’s truck. But I don’t turn the key. I don’t do anything but stare at the front of our home.
I was the one who insisted we come here.
I was the one who said we needed a fresh start.
I was the one who bugged Mom until she said yes.
Mom would have sold Grandpa’s house, stayed in Georgia, and never come back to this town where she was raised.
We would be in Georgia right now, the three of us, safe and living our lives. If it wasn’t for me.
Trouble, Nell. It’s all we can expect in this world. It’s how we react to it that defines us. Are you going to roll over, or are you going to fight?
Grandpa’s words come back to me, clouding my mind but also ringing true. My fingers hover over the ignition key. I want to go somewhere, anywhere, but where? The search party has been called off. Carl Keller is free. Sheriff Owens has a clean desk.
Carl Keller is free.
I crank the engine, then slam the gear shift into reverse. I know exactly where I’m going.
SIX
