by Jen Blood
She had plenty of enemies. Albie could have done it. Talking to Mike and Mel over at the Loyal Biscuit, they’d come up with a list of names a page long without breaking a sweat. It was the other bodies in the house that were throwing him.
One female, two males. One identified as Fred’s fiancé, the other an ex-con from Mississippi. The third still a mystery, but it wasn’t Barbara Monroe’s husband—whoever it was, he had been dead too long to be Tim Monroe. Were there other bodies buried in the basement? Or out in the field somewhere? Jack had an unpleasant thought about Nancy feeding random passersby to the dogs, but dismissed it. The bodies in the basement had been relatively intact. Why leave them alone, and dispose of others some other way?
He was letting Barbara Monroe’s imagination run away with him. There were no other bodies.
Probably.
He crept forward, tension climbing his spine.
The floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he moved deeper into the house. It had been beautiful once, no question. He doubted Fred wanted it now, though. He wasn’t sure anyone would. Beyond the stench and the filth, there was something dark about the place. As though unspeakable things had happened here, over a long period of time. To his right was a staircase, the banister chewed through in places and two steps cracked through. He’d already seen the first floor when he came through with Sophie, but it had been a brief glimpse while he tried to keep pace with the woman.
Now, he took a moment to walk down the long entryway, through what must have once been a formal dining room and into the kitchen. Yellow police tape barred the entrance. Jack carefully untaped it and set it aside with a lack of guilt that surprised him.
A Formica-topped table laden with newspapers, dirty dishes, and a dog collar. A box of cereal—Froot Loops according to the box—had been ransacked by the animals, and now a few scant remnants were scattered across a grimy, curling linoleum floor.
His eyes were drawn to the stove. A small, cheap unit that fit about as well as anything else in this place. White tape had been used in place of chalk to show where Nancy’s body had fallen.
Jack closed his eyes, trying to picture it. The woman he had seen on the exam table today, collapsed on the floor alongside twenty dogs.
Except the dogs weren’t there—they had gotten out. Even Reaver, chained in the yard and unapproachable as far as Jack could see. Even he was gone.
Had Nancy done that?
Or Albie, maybe? Had he done something with the animals before he ran away? Had he found his mother on the floor—maybe even watched her die—and then, in a moment of panic, run out but forgotten to close the door or the front gate on his way out.
But that still didn’t explain Reaver—a dog Albie was terrified of.
They were fighting at midnight, you could hear them all the way to my place, Barbara had said. I saw Bear there. I wouldn’t have wanted to get in his way, that’s for sure.
Bear could get close to Reaver.
Jack frowned. This wasn’t good.
Before he could think any further on that, he heard something—a clatter and crash that sounded like it came from the basement. Where all the bodies were buried. Probably rats, he assumed. If possible, the idea made him even more uneasy than he’d been before.
He resumed his task, determined to find something that might prove helpful. His focus returned to the table. The newspapers were all Courier Gazette and Downeast Daily Tribune—the two local papers. Apart from what looked like rat droppings, they didn’t appear to have been read. They were all recent.
The dog collar was the anomaly, he realized after a minute. It looked brand new for one thing, and he recognized the red, white, and blue lobster pattern as belonging to a line of collars and leashes he’d seen at the Loyal Biscuit. Sure enough, a closer look showed a tag from the Rockland store. They weren’t cheap, either. $14.99, according to the tag.
Nancy couldn’t have spent that kind of money on a single dog, could she?
It was a large collar, too big to fit Oswald or any of the other ratty-looking dogs Jack had seen on that first day here. There weren’t that many big dogs here, though. He recalled a giant drooling black thing; another dog he thought might have been a Doberman Pinscher. And Reaver.
Why did he keep coming back to that dog?
Another crash came from the basement, this one louder. Jack jumped at the racket, then tried to still his racing heart. Just rats. He went to the basement door and opened it despite the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Hello?” he called down the stairs quietly.
There was no response, but he heard the scrambling of rodent feet when he shone his flashlight beam below.
He closed the door again, then shone his flashlight through the kitchen one more time but came up empty. No flashing red arrows pointed to clues he had missed, at least not here.
It would be too easy to leave now. Jack ignored his churning stomach and the knowledge that he could be in serious trouble for this if he was found out, and headed for the stairs.
It was more of the same, just multiplied by ten. Dog crap six inches deep, maggots crawling through. Jack kept his hands to himself despite his gloves, not for fear of leaving fingerprints but because he didn’t want to risk catching God knew what if he touched anything here.
There were four bedrooms upstairs, three of them in total chaos. Albie’s was the exception. Jack crossed the threshold, noting the splintered doorjamb and the door hanging off its hinges—it must have been locked, and the police apparently didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to accessing the space. The room was easily identifiable as Albie’s by the Georges Valley pennant flying on the wall, and the collage of photos that also appeared to be from high school. This was by far the cleanest room in the house, though it wouldn’t win any prizes. A smell of human sweat and wet dog fur hung in the air, the bed clothes rumpled on an antique four-poster bed, all four posts chewed almost to the point of ruin. The only memento that was animal related was a photo of a scowling Albie—younger, but not by much, with a ratty little dog that Jack suspected must be Oswald.
Otherwise, it was painfully clear: for all intents and purposes, Albie’s life stopped after high school. Yellowed articles about Buccaneer basketball, soccer, and baseball games covered the peeling wallpaper, all games dated 1987 – ’90. The years Albie played. He’d apparently lost interest once his own career was over.
He left Albie’s room and continued farther down the hall. The next door had been broken open in the same way that Albie’s had, but that was where the similarities between the two rooms ended. The floor was caked in feces and what looked at first glance to be blood. Jack flinched, but kept going. A path had been cleared to a double bed with gnawed wooden posts and a filthy flowered bedspread. A lamp, a Kindle, and several bottles of pills were on the bedside table.
Jack readjusted his face mask, grateful he’d had the foresight to bring it along this time. There wasn’t much to see at first glance, or if there was he wasn’t sure he had the heart to delve any deeper. Any investigators who had been here very likely felt the same. Regardless, he took another step into the room. Something squelched beneath his shoe. He winced. More animal feces he assumed, though he didn’t have the stomach to check.
A large painting on the wall behind the bed held his attention. It made no sense in the room—in the house, for that matter. Any trace of interior decoration had long since been soiled or eaten or both, but somehow this had been spared.
Jack studied it from a distance. It showed someone he assumed was Nancy, as a much younger woman. Her hair was long, her build slender. She sat astride a roan-colored horse, her body draped over the neck and her head pressed to the horse’s. It was an oil painting, and it had been well done. Someone must have paid good money for this. He tried to recall Nancy’s background, but realized he hadn’t even thought to ask. Had she come from a wealthy home?
Even in the portrait, something about Nancy’s bearing chilled him
. Her eyes were a little bit mad, her smile almost feral. The hold she had around the horse’s neck didn’t look gentle, either.
The only picture in the place, and it wasn’t of Albie or Fred or their father—it was of Nancy and a horse. It wasn’t surprising, but it did strike him as telling. She had clearly loved Albie, but it had been a selfish, debilitating love that may well have destroyed the man. Albie would have done anything for his mother; Jack had seen that when he’d held the gun to Bear on that first day here.
He thought of the bodies in the basement, and couldn’t help but wonder. Had Albie killed for her?
Jack shone the light closer on the painting, studying it. There was definitely something odd. After a moment, it was clear.
The lack of dust or grime.
Brow furrowed, he took another step closer, until he was standing directly beside the bed. In the movie, this would be the part where a hand reached from below and grabbed his ankle or severed his Achilles. He grimaced. Jack hated those kinds of movies.
“What secrets were you hiding here, Nancy?” he mused aloud.
He knelt on the filthy bed for better access to the portrait. Another pair of jeans he would need to burn. At least he could expense this pair to Barbara.
With a gloved hand, he ran his finger along the edge of the painting. Then, he reached up and carefully removed it from the wall.
He set the painting on the bed—the cleanest surface in the room, though that wasn’t saying much—and stared.
A recessed shelf had been built there, and effectively hidden from view by Nancy’s portrait. The police hadn’t found this, he had no doubt.
The first two shelves were a cluttered array of photos and macabre keepsakes from the animals Nancy had taken in: some photos framed, others faded and taped to the woodwork. Alongside were clumps of fur, three rabbit’s feet, bleached bones and teeth… It was a grisly shadowbox, a tribute to the animals who had lived and died under her care.
It was the top shelf that held his attention, however.
There was a photo in a gilt frame, of Nancy in a wedding gown alongside a small, timid-looking man in suit and tie. He looked just like Fred. This, then, would have been her husband. And beside it… Jack looked away, stomach turning.
This most likely was also the husband. Sophie would be able to run dental records, but Jack had little doubt that the skull resting beside the framed photo belonged with the headless skeleton he’d found in the basement. Nancy’s husband hadn’t run away all those years ago at all, and Nancy had known it.
So, what had happened to him?
Jack was jolted from quiet contemplation by a crash downstairs, this one impossible to chalk up to a rogue rat or two. For the first time in months, he was grateful for the Glock holstered at his side.
He crept from Nancy’s room, careful to replace the painting on the wall first. The house was still again when he reentered the hallway—eerily so, a silence that felt deeper than what he’d experienced when he first entered.
He started down the stairs, head up, eyes straining in the darkness. He was so intent on the world around that he forgot until the very last second about the broken stairs. His ankle twisted when he hit the broken board, but Jack recovered in time to keep himself from falling, a gloved hand grasping at the precarious banister. Once he’d found his feet again, he paused halfway to the first floor. His body tightened. This time, he actually reached for his gun. Drew.
Someone was moving downstairs. He heard a strange crackling. A distant murmur.
He considered calling out again, but if he wasn’t supposed to be here, whoever was in the kitchen definitely wasn’t.
Maybe Albie had returned.
Or Fred.
He continued moving quietly toward the sound, so focused on his destination that he paid little attention to his immediate surroundings.
That was his first mistake.
Because when the attacker hit, they came from behind. Someone moving fast, hurtling toward him, invisible to him in the darkness. He felt the impact of someone’s hands on his chest. Smelled gasoline, even as his feet went out from under him. He realized then that what he’d heard downstairs wasn’t a person at all—it was a thing.
A deadly, seething, violent thing.
Fire.
This time when he clutched at the railing, his weight was too much—he heard the splintering of wood, and crashed down half the flight of stairs before landing hard on the soiled floor below. He’d twisted his shoulder on the way down; hit his head hard on impact. He lay stunned for a moment too long—enough time for his assailant to follow him down the stairs. He was dimly aware of the rush of air as something darker than the black all around came toward him, and he felt the explosive pain when it crashed into his skull.
And then, he felt nothing.
Chapter 19
I HURRIED AFTER BEAR as the ambulance left with Albie, and caught up to him and Casper just before he climbed into his truck. We were in the parking lot at the top of Mt Battie, a hoard of search teams all decompressing around us. I stepped in front of Bear’s door before he could go anywhere.
“Why don’t you ride with Monty and the others tonight? I’ll take your truck back.”
“That’s all right—I’ll just meet you later.” He wouldn’t look at me. Anger poured from him, so tangible that I could almost feel it. He looked like he would go mad, and I had no idea how to help him. When had he become so angry?
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” I said. I kept my voice even. In this state, there was no way I wanted him out alone on the roads.
“I’m eighteen—” His voice rose. I kept mine quiet, if only to provide some counterbalance.
“I know you are. So, I’m not ordering you—I couldn’t if I wanted to. But I’m asking you: drive back to the wharf with Monty and the rest of the crew.” I hesitated, grateful when he finally met my eye and I saw a glimpse of the boy I had raised. “Please, Bear.”
Movement in my periphery pulled my focus for a moment, and I realized that Monty was standing by, Granger lying wearily at his feet. He made no move, though, letting Bear decide on his own.
Finally, Bear sighed. He looked exhausted, and as humorless as he’d been for the past month. “Fine,” he grumbled. He pushed the keys at me. “Whatever. Don’t wreck my truck, though.”
“I’ll do my best.” On impulse, I pulled him to me in a crushing hug. “I love you, kiddo,” I whispered in his ear. “We’ll get through this.”
He tensed, and pulled away with that damned mask still in place.
“Come on, sunshine,” Monty said. He draped his arm around Bear’s shoulders. “You’re with me. Meet you back at the wharf?” he asked me.
“Meet you there,” I agreed with a nod, then mouthed “Thank you” when Bear wasn’t looking. Monty dismissed my gratitude with a wave of his hand.
“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” he said. I watched as he steered Bear away, the dogs at their heels.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and opened the passenger’s side door of Bear’s truck. Phantom leapt inside. I fastened her into Casper’s harness safety belt, and took my own seat. My head was starting to pound again, but thankfully there were no voices. Before I turned on the truck, I remembered to turn the radio down—Bear tends to listen to music at three decibels above deafening.
This time, however, there was no music to burst my eardrums. Instead, a woman’s voice came on, so low I could barely hear. I turned up the volume.
“…I think you’d like it out here if you give it a chance,” the woman’s voice said. Not a woman, I realized immediately. Or, not just any woman. Ren. If I hadn’t recognized the voice, I would certainly recognize the Nigerian accent. “I know we’re young. I know everything I said before I left… It’s still all true. We have to live our lives. Grow up. But…” She sniffed quietly. She was crying. “I just miss you, Bear. It’s like I’ve lost a leg or something.”
I turned the CD off quickly, ashamed to have listened e
ven that much. I couldn’t get the sound of Ren’s voice out of my head. The tremor when she’d said those words. My own vision blurred as I blinked away tears.
No wonder Bear was having such a hard time. He was eighteen, high school behind him, with enough money to do whatever he wanted to. He put so many limits on himself, though. I knew he wouldn’t use Brock’s money, and academically he didn’t have nearly the options that Ren had. She’d had colleges knocking down her door before she finally decided on the University of Southern California to be near her father. Bear had never done well with school. Dyslexia was just the first of many problems for him, and he seemed to view being in any classroom as some kind of punishment.
He had opted to stay on Windfall Island to pursue his own passion projects after finishing school, but I wondered now whether he was doing that because he truly wanted to, or because he didn’t have the confidence to try something else.
I drove through the night with my thoughts whirling, while Phantom slept soundly on the seat beside me. I kept one hand on her head, a grounding force as my thoughts shifted back to Albie. He’d seemed clear when he shouted the words.
I saw him kill my mother.
My stomach churned.
That was ridiculous, though. Sheriff Finnegan would have to see just how ridiculous—he had to know Bear wouldn’t do this. He would never hurt someone.
You’ll get this dog over my dead body, Nancy had said to Bear, on the night she died.
Fine with me.
Oh, God.
It looks like our son picked up your killing ways, Brock murmured in my ear. The usual accompanying headache rocked my skull. I kept my eyes on the road.
“Go away,” I said aloud. Phantom woke and looked at me, head raised. If there were in fact some spirit here, she didn’t sense it.
He’s got that game down, James. Same as you, Brock said.
I didn’t say anything, my head pounding now, but try as I might I couldn’t just send him away.
“What game are you talking about, Brock?” I asked reluctantly.