Presumed Dead

by Mason Cross

  “What is this? You his boyfriend or something?”

  I said nothing. I kept the smile on my face. I studied his eyes and knew exactly what was coming next.

  Jeff didn’t disappoint. He lunged for me and stopped halfway, expecting me to start. I didn’t flinch. Close up, I saw his eyes take on a slightly desperate look. I saw a bead of sweat run down the side of his forehead.

  The one with the beard clamped a gentle hand over Jeff’s shoulder. He spoke without averting his eyes from me. “You heard the man,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”

  Jeff took a step back, then another, then a third. He turned and walked toward the exit. The one with the beard followed, stopping at the door to give me a look before he stepped through it. I sighed. It had been a while since I had had to be involved in this kind of nonsense.

  “Hey, thanks man,” Jason said when the door closed.

  “I take it those two aren’t regulars.”

  He shook his head. “Fuckin’ weekend hunters. Never seen them before and I hope I won’t again. You better wait in here while I call the cops.”

  I held a hand up. “Better not.”

  He paused with a hand on the phone that was attached to the wall. “They’re waiting for you out there,” he said. “They’re going to kick your ass.”

  I took my jacket off and handed it to Jason.

  “Give me two minutes to have a word with them.”

  He looked unconvinced, but took his hand away from the phone.

  I followed in the direction Jeff and the Beard had gone. Before I pushed the door open I could see that Jason’s instincts had been astute. They were both waiting for me outside, positioned at diagonals in either direction from the door. Jeff on the left, Beard on the right.

  “You’re going to be sorry, you prick,” Jeff started as he moved toward me. He had started the confrontation with me, so presumably he felt honor-bound to take the first swing, in the safe knowledge that the Beard had his back. I watched his hands and was ready when he swung at me with a right. I caught his fist in my left palm and tensed my arm, stopping his forward motion. Then I relaxed it and he came forward a little. I planted my right hand square in the center of his chest and pushed him back, hard.

  The movement took him by surprise, exactly as it was supposed to. It thrust him backwards three or four steps until he lost his balance and fell on his ass in the dirt. By the time he had taken his second involuntary step back, I was already on the offensive. I didn’t wait for the Beard to react, and anyway, I knew he would give Jeff some time to fail before he jumped in. Beard presented a different proposition, which meant different technique. He had a couple of inches and fifty pounds on me, so he wasn’t going to be a literal pushover like his friend.

  I bent my head and tackled his midsection, knocking the air out of his lungs and bringing him down as he was thinking about getting his hands up to defend himself. He flailed about and started to get up on one knee. I grabbed his head and smashed it with moderate force against the wooden guardrail on the deck. Not hard enough to cause a concussion or knock him out, just with enough emphasis to discourage him. If everybody stayed out of the hospital, it would be better for all concerned.

  Jeff was still getting to his feet, his jaw hanging half-open in disbelief as he watched things unfold a little differently to what he had planned.

  I took a step back and smoothed the arms of my shirt down, keeping them both in my field of vision.

  “Time to quit while you’re ahead,” I said. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and I’m happy to forget this ever happened. Get in your car.”

  Jeff blinked. He looked convinced. I switched my focus to Beard and saw he had greater reserves of pride to bruise. He wasn’t about to give up. Shit.

  As I was bracing for him to rush me, strong beams of white light swung over the three of us and I heard an engine and the scrape of tires on the gravel. The three of us looked up to see a blue-and-white SUV swing into the lot. I relaxed and took a step back from the other two.

  A tall male cop got out. I squinted against the headlights and saw it wasn’t the sheriff, or the younger one. I wondered if Jason had changed his mind and decided to call anyway, then decided the cop had gotten here too quickly. More likely he had just been passing.

  “What’s going on here, gentlemen?”

  As he got closer, I read his nametag in the neon light from the sign: FELDMAN. He was about forty, six-feet, a hundred-and-eighty pounds with no sign of flab. He was eyeing the other two. Jeff was picking himself up, the Beard was bracing himself against the guardrail. I was very glad I hadn’t broken his nose, now. Feldman turned his attention to me, putting together what had just happened. He was looking at my hands, to see if there was anything in them. I held my arms out from my body a little, palms open so he could see I wasn’t carrying anything.

  “Nothing, Deputy. No problem at all.”

  He gave me a long stare, then looked back at the other two. “That right?”

  Jeff’s eyes stared into mine, wanting me to understand how mad he was. I couldn’t care less. I wouldn’t be here tomorrow and in all likelihood, neither would these two jackasses. I responded with another smile. That made him scrunch his features up like he was trying to hold himself back from launching himself at me again, but I knew it was for show. They weren’t going to do anything in front of a cop.

  “That’s right,” he said, not looking away from me. “There’s no problem, Deputy.”

  Feldman shined the beam of his flashlight into Beard’s face. He flinched and lifted his hand to shield his eyes.

  “What about you? Why were you on the ground?”

  “I slipped.”

  “You slipped.”

  None of us said anything. After a minute, Feldman shook his head and sighed. “I’ll let you get on your way then. You two first.”

  Beard and Jeff walked back to their shiny pickup, a little of the swagger returning. Jeff shot me another of his looks. I ignored it. As they got in and reversed out of the spot, Feldman took a second to read their license plate, before he clicked the flashlight off and walked across to me. The taillights of the pickup had disappeared by the time he spoke.

  “Mr. Blake, isn’t it?” There was a phony-looking smile on his face. I guessed word had gotten around about me after my visit to the department.

  “That’s right.”

  The smile faded and the fake warmth seeped out of his tone. “Watch your step.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He cast his eyes over the wood railing, the one I had bounced Beard’s face off a couple of minutes before. “Easy to make a mistake, like that gentleman.” His eyes found mine. “You could get hurt.”

  22

  Dwight Haycox

  The shelter was a stone structure, still reasonably intact. About ten feet square, with a wood and slate roof and a doorway open to the elements. Inside there was a wooden bench on each wall, a dirt floor and a blackened alcove that bore witness to long-ago fires. There was a burnt beer can in the ash. When he picked it up and turned it to the light, Haycox could just make out the ghost of an old Coors logo on it.

  Discarding the can and kneeling down, he played the beam of his flashlight under the benches. Nothing beneath the first one, only a pile of magazines beneath the next. No – not just a pile of magazines. There was a small canvas pouch there too.

  Feeling a chill that was nothing to do with the cold of the night, he reached under the bench. The sleeve of his coat caught on one of the supports and he had to tug it back to get it free. The shape and weight of what was in the pouch was exactly what he expected.

  He straightened up and carefully opened the pouch on top of the bench. He drew it back over the object, being careful not to touch it.

  A Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

  23

  Carter Blake<
br />
  I got back to Benson’s Cabins at nine. The encounter with the two hunters had been the last thing I needed. The bartender would back me up, but I didn’t think that would make much difference. Deputy Feldman would be only too happy to report back to Sheriff McGregor that his instincts about my potential for troublemaking had been right.

  The approach from Deputy Green had been unexpected, though, and I was still working out how I felt about it. Maybe McGregor had told her to keep an eye on the enemy. Good cop, bad cop was the oldest trick in the book after all. So why did I instinctively believe she was on the level? If it was an act, it was a very good one. She wasn’t overly friendly, she wasn’t too eager to be helpful. I thought about what she had said about growing up in the town, experiencing the case as a civilian, and then as a family member of a victim. Perhaps, despite what she had said, a part of her wanted to go digging. Perhaps she saw me as an excuse to do that. And then there was Haycox, quietly looking into the Devil Mountain Killer under his boss’s nose.

  I got out the map I had marked up in the bar and laid it across the small desk in front of the window that looked out on the lake. Eight spots on the map. Twelve suspected victims. David Connor was certain that one of those names should be taken off the list.

  I grabbed another map from my backpack, this one was a roadmap of the southern states. I traced my finger from Bethany down Route 19 to Atlanta. A hundred miles, give or take. If I left at eight, I could be there by ten. I had had an educational day in Bethany, but I didn’t want to wear out my welcome all at once. It was time to pick up the trail a little farther south.

  24

  Dwight Haycox

  It was impossible to tell from looking at the gun how old it was. It could have been bought yesterday, or it could have lain here for years. All of a sudden, he became very conscious of the silence. The gusts of wind had died down. He reached for his own gun and drew it, holding it beside his flashlight as he stepped outside and flashed it around the plateau where the shelter sat. He let out a breath and went back inside to examine the gun, making sure to face the doorway as he did so.

  He took out a pen and inserted it in the muzzle, lifting it up so he could inspect the cylinders. It wasn’t loaded, unless there was one in the chamber. He sniffed the barrel. The faintest hint of gunpowder. So faint that he could not be certain it was not his imagination.

  He sighed and used the pen to drop the gun back in the pouch, cinching it and holding it by the end so as not to smear any prints.

  So Bloody Bill just happened to remember an old shelter that everyone else had forgotten about, and there just happened to be a gun stashed here. A gun that was of the same kind used by the Devil Mountain Killer? All of a sudden, Haycox felt very alone up here, on the mountain in the dark.

  He had been stupid, to come out here alone. It hadn’t felt so different from the other hikes he had made, some of them at night. But this was different, because somebody had told him where to look. Somebody had put him where they wanted him, and nobody else in the world knew where he was. Up until now, this had all been history. A fascinating diversion. Now it was starting to seem all too current.

  He retraced his steps along the old trail, being careful to avoid the fifty-foot sheer drop next to the shelter. He backtracked down the steep slope and around to where it rejoined the path. He kept his flashlight in his left hand and his eyes wide open. He kept his right hand close to his holster, when he wasn’t using it for balance or to clear branches from the path. It took him less time to descend back to the tree line, and the creatures in the wood seemed to be less disturbed by his passage on the return trip. He was in sight of the gravel lot at the base of the trail when he heard something moving behind him. Haycox fumbled for his gun, keeping the flashlight trained on the woods, and had barely gotten it clear of the holster when a figure stepped out onto the trail.

  He flinched and dropped the flashlight without thinking to grip the gun with two hands. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” he called out. “Identify yourself.”

  The flashlight had fallen so that its beam illuminated a pair of dirty boots and blue jeans, but nothing higher than the knees. The rest of the figure was silhouetted against the gap in the trees.

  The figure raised its hands, slowly. Haycox tried to focus on the hands. It was difficult to see if he was holding anything.

  He was going to have to get closer.

  Sunday

  25

  Carter Blake

  Joe Benson rustled me up a hearty southern breakfast that would have fed four hungry people. Bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, grits, lots of black coffee. He piled a smaller serving onto his own plate and I asked if he was going to join me.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the big wooden table in the cabin that functioned as a communal kitchen-cum-mess hall. The table would seat ten comfortably, and there were a couple of others the same size, their legs folded up and leaned against the wall, next to stacked-up chairs.

  “Must be a lot busier in the summer,” I said, looking at the extra tables and chairs.

  “I wish,” he chuckled. “What are your plans for today?”

  “I’m going to Atlanta,” I said. “I might be back tonight, might stay over, if that’s okay with you.”

  “You paid for the cabin, up to you when you sleep in it.” He took a forkful of food and chewed thoughtfully. “I hear you got yourself in a little trouble last night.”

  “News travels fast here.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “And what’s the town gossip saying?”

  “They’re all talking about what you’re here for, for a start.” He looked at me pointedly, not feeling the need to elaborate on that. “And it seems you got in a bar fight last night. Although looking at you, I guess you came come out on top.”

  “It really wasn’t a fight,” I said. “Just a minor disagreement.”

  “Well, so long as you stick to disagreeing with out-of-towners, I reckon you’ll be okay.”

  “I hope so,” I said, refilling my cup. “I spoke to Deputy Green yesterday, as well as the sheriff. She seems okay.”

  Benson smiled. “Most guys think she’s okay. Okay to look at, that is.” He gestured the tip of his fork at me reprovingly. “Some of them regret trying it on with her.”

  “I was meaning she seemed like a good cop. Conscientious.”

  “A good cop who happens to be easy on the eye, though,” he said with a note of amusement.

  Easy on the eye and easy to talk to. There was no point denying that. I had found myself thinking about Deputy Green a little ever since our conversation, and I had to admit that might not be entirely to do with this case.

  “She told me her dad was one of the Devil Mountain Killer’s victims,” I said.

  His expression changed and he nodded sadly. “So I hear. Although, like I said …”

  “People don’t like to talk about it,” I finished.

  He pointed the end of his fork at me as though to say, Spot on.

  “Anyway, she doesn’t need any more grief.”

  “I’m not planning on giving her any.”

  “That’s good.”

  We ate in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “So what’s in Atlanta?” Joe asked.

  “That’s what I’m going there to find out.”

  “Mr. Wheeler was killed in Atlanta.”

  “So they tell me.”

  He waited for me to elaborate, and when I didn’t, he moved on. “A lot of people around here think Connor sent him on a wild goose chase. They think he’s doing the same to you. I hope he’s paying you well.”

  “Everybody seems to be certain he’s delusional. That Adeline Connor is dead. What do you think?”

  “Me?” He s
hrugged, as though he had never considered he might have an opinion. “It was all before my time. I mean, I moved here in ’06, and the whole thing was still an open wound at that time. Asking around about this subject the way you’re doing would have gotten you a frosty welcome back then.” He saw a flicker of a smile at the corner of my mouth and pointed his fork at me again. “You ain’t seen nothin’ if you think it’s bad now. Things have healed a little. But I guess people don’t like the scab being picked at.”

  “Some people can’t help picking at scabs,” I said. “It’s in their nature.”

  “You asked me what I think. I think anything’s possible. But sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. That she’s dead, and Connor is fooling himself.”

  “It doesn’t do any harm to test the simple explanation a little, though.”

  “That’s where you may be wrong, Blake,” he said. His eyes took on a faraway look. “Sometimes it can do a lot of harm.”

  I walked back across the gravel lot to my cabin and packed the few things I would need into a small backpack. A change of clothes, some cash and David Connor’s sketches of the two people he had seen in September: the woman he thought was Adeline, and the man with the tattoo.

  The last thing I did was to take a pack of pencil leads from my case. I placed one in the hinge of the door, where it would break soundlessly if someone opened it. I was turning away when a vase of plastic lilies on a table beside the door caught my eye. Only it wasn’t really a vase, it was a glass jug. After a second’s consideration, I took out the flowers and hung the jug on the door handle, before leaving by the French doors at the back. Overkill, even for me. But then again, there are some towns where you can’t be too careful.

  I reached the city limits of Atlanta a little before noon. The spot where Walter Wheeler had been killed was on the west side of town, where the 285 intersected with the 20. The gas station he had stopped at was just up the road from the intersection where his body had been found. I pulled into the forecourt and parked by one of the pumps. The tank was down to below a quarter full anyway, so I took the opportunity to fill up.