Gone, page 6
The cashier rings up my water. “I saw that guy,” she says.
“What guy?”
She nods to the TV. “That one. He came in here a couple of days ago.”
“What did he buy?”
“Stuff. Food, water, toys, and kid clothes. I already called the tip line, like thirty minutes ago. They said they’d send a cop over to take my statement.”
“Please tell me he paid with a credit card.”
“No, cash. And the only reason why I remember that is because he pulled out a Spider-Man Velcro wallet. I thought it was funny, a grown-ass man using a Spider-Man wallet.”
Tyler has a Spider-Man wallet.
“Listen, it’s my brother who went missing.” Outside a cop car pulls up. Quickly, I scribble down my name and number. “If you see the guy again, please call me.”
“Oh my God, it’s your brother?” She takes my number. “Yeah, for sure I’ll call you.”
The cop walks in. It’s the same one I’ve seen twice before now. He recognizes me, coming to an accusatory stop.
I don’t know what he’s accusing me of. “Just buying this.” I hold up the water. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Grace is sitting at my front door when I pull into the driveway.
With a sniff, she wipes her cheeks and stands. She watches me through stony eyes as I climb from Grandpa’s truck and walk to her.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“At my house.”
“Carl knows that man I chased. I was just there with him. He responded to the sketch. He knows him, Grace. And there’s a cashier at the Dollar Store who recognized the man, too. She said he had a Spider-Man Velcro wallet. Tyler has a Spi—”
“We’re done.”
“What do you mean, we’re done?”
She gives me a hard look. “We can’t keep Carl Keller locked up.”
Through the dark, Mom walks toward us, coming from the direction of the pass-through. She looks exhausted. Like she’s aged ten years in a few days.
“I want to see him,” she says. “Take me to him.”
Meekly, Grace stands in the studio’s office as I open the black door that leads into the soundproof room. I flip on the broken lantern. It casts Carl in an eerie and choppy pale glow.
He trembles.
I glower.
Hesitantly, Mom stands beside me. “We the only three who know?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” Mom mumbles.
I look at the side of her face, wishing she looked angry, but seeing desperate hope instead. And if I’m seeing that, so is Carl.
Silently, she takes a step forward, surveying Carl’s beat-up face and body. She shows no fear as she comes down onto her knees beside him. She takes a moment to survey him before moving in close.
From her pocket, she pulls out Tyler’s favorite toy—a Spider-Man Flying Figure. “I’ve been carrying this around for days.” She shows it to Carl. “This is Tyler’s favorite. He misses it. I bet you had a favorite toy when you were a little boy.” Her voice cracks.
Blankly, Carl stares at her face.
Next, she takes a photo from the pocket of her fleece. “Here they are on the beach last year. Luca’s family came to visit us in Georgia that week.”
Carl starts to come to life a little, leaning in to look at the photo.
“You can help them,” Mom says. “Please.” Her voice cracks again.
Carl’s mouth moves.
“Get him some water. He needs water.”
“I’ll get it,” Grace quietly says.
For a moment, Mom considers him. Then with shaking hands, she starts to peel the duct tape away.
“What are you doing?” I step forward.
“It’s fine.” She uses the sleeve of her fleece to gently wipe the dried blood from his face. She smooths his greasy hair back. “Get me a knife or scissors.”
“No.”
She works at a chunk of the tape until it comes free.
“Mom.”
One mangled hand pops out from lack of circulation and likely from the beating I gave him as well. Mom gasps.
Grace comes back with water. Mom carefully gives it to him. Eagerly, he gulps it down. He lies back as she works more of the duct tape free. An arm appears, the sleeve partially shoved up with more mangled skin coming into view.
His mouth moves again. He says something.
Mom moves closer. “What? What is it?”
He grabs her and yanks her in. She screams.
I fly across the room and shoulder between them. Carl fists the plastic figurine and beats me with it. A pointy end slashes my lip, and with a wince, I wrangle his thrashing wrist and I slam it down hard into the floor. Once. Twice. And on the third time, he lets go.
Grace helps me roll him over and while I plant my knee in his back and hold him in place, she runs to get the duct tape.
A minute later he’s secure again, and I stand up.
I taste blood.
Shocked, Mom cowers in the corner.
Carl sobs.
“Oh my God,” Grace whispers. “This is not happening.”
I stare at both of them, wanting to yell so very badly. Instead, I pick the photo up of the boys at the beach and I tape it to the wall. “So we all remember why he’s in here. In case anyone decides to feel sorry for him.”
After I get Mom home, a sleeping pill down her, and settled in bed, I put a frozen meal in the microwave. While I watch it spin and begin to bubble, I stare at my split lip and bruised nose. I make myself think.
Grandpa used to say he solved the best cases when he stopped moving and took time to look at details he wasn’t currently fixated on. Currently, I’m fixated on Carl Keller.
It’s not in my nature to do what Grandpa said. I’m an action-oriented person. But I stand here, staring at my chicken marsala and force myself to look at details not involving Carl Keller.
Father Richards, the drunk sex-offender-former-priest, pops into my mind first.
He said his name was Tom Lager.
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.
Though Father Richards thought Tom Lager was a fake name, I still look it up. I get back several hits. One lives in the middle of the state and owns a bar. One lives south near the Georgia border and works at a paper mill as a welder. Another west of here is a retired project manager for an IT company. But nothing local.
Sheriff Owens comes to mind next.
I wanted to let you know we were unable to identify the body you found in the storm cellar, though we were able to tell it had been there five years like Father Richards said.
For five years that body has been in Father Richards’ storm cellar. Twenty-five years ago, Randy McMillan went missing. Randy could very well be a victim of the fictitious Tom Lager, which means Randy is buried somewhere with the other boys that Tom Lager took.
You should also look into the name Randy McMillan. Twenty-five years ago he also went missing from the same house.
When I said that, Sheriff Owens didn’t really respond. He simply reminded me we were on the same team. It’s like he already knew that piece of information.
But what really gets me is that when Randy went missing, your grandfather did nothing.
The microwave dings. I open the door. Steam rolls out.
Grandpa was sheriff back then, sure, but what about Owens? How long has he been working in law enforcement? Was he part of the team that investigated the disappearance of Randy McMillan?
It’s 2:05 in the morning when my phone lights up with Grace’s name.
I answer on the first ring. “Looks like you’re not sleeping either.”
“We need to let Carl go.”
“You said that already.”
“He’s not going to say anything new.”
“He will.”
“All I can hear is his sobbing. You can’t hurt him anymore. Did you see his arm and hand? Did you see his swollen face? You’re going to kill him, Nell.”
“No, I won’t. I know his limit.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You got a better idea?”
Grace sighs.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Let him free. If that’s really what you want, I won’t stop you.”
Another sigh, this one even heavier.
“You think someone is looking out for Luca the way you’re doing so for Carl? We’re running out of time.”
“We don’t even know if Carl is the guy who took them.”
“Then why did he say they only cried once? Why was he singing the ‘Great Green Globs’ song? He knows something.”
“Listen, we want Luca back just as badly as you all want Tyler. I would die for Luca or my mom. I would. Matthew, too. But this has to stop.”
“Then why don’t you go over there and see what you can do? Because he’s not responding to me.”
“Okay, maybe I will.”
“For God’s sake, don’t undo his duct tape.”
For a moment she’s so silent I think she hung up. Then, “You’re going to kill him. Carl doesn’t know anything. He’s just some brain-damaged guy who you found driving the station wagon. I’m not going back there. But I won’t stop you either. You do what you think you need to do. When the police find out he’s there, I’ll deny everything.” With that, she clicks off.
TEN
Wednesday, 6 a.m.
A scream rattles me awake.
I’m out of bed and in the hall to find Tyler’s bedroom door closed. I try the handle. It’s locked. “Mom?” I try the handle again. “Why are you in Tyler’s room?”
She steps through her open door. “Nell?”
“Did you scream?”
“Yes, sorry. Nightmare.” Yawning, she rubs her eyes.
“Why is this locked?”
Her sleepy face instantly awakens. “What do you mean?”
I rattle the door-knob, showing her.
Terrified now, her eyes widen. She bangs on the door. “Tyler? Tyler? Oh, Jesus. TYLER?” She screams. “Break it down. Hurry.”
I kick it, and I kick it again. It doesn’t budge. With a yell, I ram my shoulder into it. It pops open.
A rush of cold air hits my face.
Mom pushes past me, walking into a dark bedroom. She flips on the light, showing the area exactly as it was yesterday and the day before with boxes of clothes, toys piled against the wall, and the twin bed covered by a blue and white quilt.
The window is open, letting icy air flow in. Mom stumbles over to it. “Tyler? Sweetheart? It’s Mommy. Where are you?” She leans out the window. “Tyler?”
In the center of the room, I turn a slow circle. My gaze takes in every tiny detail. My breath starts to show in the cold. “Someone’s been in here.”
Sheriff Owens stands in Tyler’s room, studying Mom who looks drugged out of her mind. Beyond the window, the sun makes its first appearance.
“He was here,” Mom speaks, adamant. “I heard him. The window was open.”
She sways. I steady her, sitting her down on Tyler’s bed.
“Tyler opened his window. He was trying to get in.” Mom looks at me. “Right, Nell? You were here. You saw.” Mom looks at Owens. “Why aren’t you writing this down?”
With as little condescension as possible, Owens glances at me. “You heard him?”
“I heard… something.”
Mom pushes up off the bed. “The shed. We’ve never checked the shed.”
She rushes from Tyler’s room, down the hall, and out the front door. Without putting on her fleece or shoes, she runs in socks across the wet ground. She treads a path down the side of the house into the backyard. At the shed, she yanks the lock.
“Why is this locked?” She yanks harder. “Why is this locked? Tyler? Tyler, you in there? Where’s the key? WHERE’S THE KEY?”
“Mom, Tyler’s not in there.” I come up behind her.
She yanks even harder. The shed vibrates. “Open this. Get this open now. Please. Please. Please.” She falls to the ground, sobbing. “Please.” She grabs me. “Make Carl talk. Please.”
Sheriff Owens left soon after Mom’s breakdown. I got her back inside, into the tub, and then changed into dry clothes.
Now she sits in the living room, dazed, staring at the wall.
And I stand outside, studying the shed. In all my many visits here to see Grandpa, I’ve never once seen inside this shed. He told me he had surplus hunting supplies in it. I never doubted that.
Why am I now?
In my hand, I hold the key ring I found in the kitchen drawer. I choose the one labeled “shed” and fit it into the padlock. I turn it. The lock pops open.
The door swings out, and with it a musty scent of stale closed-up air. Though it’s daylight out, I still flip on a flashlight. It illuminates metal shelves filled with MRE meals, neatly folded clothes, ammunition, rope, tools, knives, gun cases, cardboard boxes with no label, and a large bag of used lye.
A carved wooden box on the top shelf catches my eye. Small and rectangular, the polished mahogany glints in my flashlight beam. Only a latch holds it in place. When I take it down, I discover the shape of a heart neatly burned into the top. I open the latch and inside lays an old-fashioned key, it too with a heart etched into it.
I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this key before.
Frozen rain comes down. Hitting the wipers, I squint through the windshield. The Dollar Store comes into view. I pull in and park. With a stifled yawn, I run through the sleet.
Inside, I buy a Mountain Dew, finding the same girl working from before.
“Not much of a breakfast,” she says.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t drink this crap unless I was in dire need.” I pay for the drink. “Don’t suppose that bearded man has been back in?”
“No. I promise I’ll call if he does.”
With a nod, I unscrew the lid and gulp some down.
The TV behind the counter shows two police boats on a nearby rock quarry with divers deployed. Search and rescue dogs roam the woods surrounding the quarry. A ticker at the bottom says they’re looking for the missing boys.
She notices what has my attention. “Want me to turn it off?”
“No, I’m glad to see it. Catch you later.” I trudge across the parking lot back out to the truck. For a second, I sit with the heat on, drinking more sugar and caffeine.
The studio’s only a block away.
I hope Carl froze during the night. Maybe the promise of heat will make him talk. Or… food. I glance around, trying to remember if there are any fast-food restaurants near here and that’s when I see him—Sheriff Owens.
He sits in his vehicle, parked down the road.
“Shit.” I grimace.
He’s following me. And if I hadn’t glanced up, I wouldn’t have seen him. I would have led him straight to the studio.
Think, Nell, think.
I look up at The Dollar Store. Through the sleet, I watch the girl stock shelves. She does an about-face, running to answer the phone.
After turning the truck engine back off, I open the door and jump out. I retrace my steps to the Dollar Store, veering off at the last second.
I know Owens is watching. I hope he’s good and curious.
I keep my head ducked against the freezing rain as I walk along the side of the store. In my peripheral, a car comes down the road with its low beams on. It passes, sending up a spray of sludge. I use the interruption to change my direction, making a bee-line straight across the road to Owens’ car.
I come up right next to his window, staring into his baffled face. With my knuckle, I tap on the glass.
It lowers. He shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Why are you following me?”
Sheriff Owens nods to the passenger side. “Get in.”
I do as he requests, but I take my time at it.
Once the passenger door is closed, Owens lets several long seconds go by.
I wait.
“What did your mom mean by, ‘Make Carl talk’?”
My head shakes in bitter disbelief. I breathe out. “Because she knows that he has information key to finding Tyler and Luca. Everyone seems to realize that but you.”
My words don’t appear to faze him. “Why are you here in this part of town?” he asks.
“What else am I going to do? I’m sure as hell not sitting at home staring at the wall like my mom. So, I drive around, and I look for my little brother.”
He gives me a dubious look. “Is that what you were doing the night Carl went missing? Were you driving around looking for your little brother?”
“Probably.”
“I find it curious that you attack Carl in the parking lot of the police station hours before he disappears.”
“What, you don’t think he skipped town? Guilty people tend to do that.”
“Let me ask you again. Why are you here in this part of town?”
I nod to the Dollar Store. “I bought something to drink. Go ask her. Plus, she’s the one who said she saw the man I chased. I came to ask her if he’d been back in. Go ask her,” I repeat. “She’ll vouch for me.”
He stares into my eyes, looking for traces of a lie. He must see sadness instead because something shifts in his expression, becoming gentle.
“Tyler’s going to need you and your mom when he comes home,” he says. “You two need to take care of each other.”
For some reason, his gentle tone grates my nerves. I look away. “Kids that are gone more than a week have half a chance of being found. Give it a month and little to no chance at all. Not alive, at least.”
“It hasn’t been a week yet.”
I open the door and get out. He doesn’t stop me.
By the time I cross back over to Grandpa’s truck, Owens has pulled across the road and parked behind me.
