Presumed Dead

by Mason Cross

  I understood what she meant. If Haycox hadn’t gone home after his shift, it meant he had been missing for longer than we had thought. Since Saturday evening.

  In the living room, there was a desk with four drawers, two on either side. When we looked through them, we realized this was where Haycox was keeping his hobby case. Devil Mountain newspaper clippings, notes, a copy of the book I had.

  “Weird,” Green said. “I thought there was more than this.”

  It looked like enough to me. There was a map on the desk, marked up similarly to the one I had. Only there was an extra spot marked on this one, in blue ink instead of the red used for the eight body locations.

  “What’s wrong?” Isabella asked.

  “Too many bodies,” I said. Green looked at it, then saw what I meant. She pointed at the odd one out in blue. It was a location on Devil Mountain itself, way off the path.

  “What does this mean?” she asked, as though talking to herself. “Does he think that’s another body dump location? One that was never found?”

  I tapped on his computer to wake the screen. It asked for a password. Green considered and then started typing.

  “He got me to log on to his emails at work once when his phone was out. If we’re lucky he uses the same … bingo.”

  We exchanged a smile. That’s the thing about passwords. You need so many of them these days that most people recycle them.

  She opened his emails and found nothing. Then tried opening a browser and looking at recent items. The first URL that came up was familiar.

  “TrueSleuths,” I said quietly.

  “What’s TrueSleuths?”

  I didn’t answer, I was too busy looking to see if he was logged in and what his username was. It didn’t come as a surprise.

  “He’s Mr. Brownstone.”

  Green looked at me, waiting for me to explain.

  “I looked at this a couple of days ago. It’s a site where people go to talk about unsolved crimes. Haycox seems to be quite the history buff.”

  “Check his DMs,” Green said.

  I clicked into his profile and found direct messages. There were a number of them from other would-be sleuths, either fulsomely praising or abusively criticizing his work. And one, sent Saturday, that had been opened and read. It was from a user calling himself Bloody Bill.

  Got some more thoughts on DMK you might be interested in.

  There was a cell phone number. Without speaking, Green took out her phone and dialed it. It went straight to a message saying the number wasn’t operational. Not even the option to leave a voicemail.

  “I’ll see if we can link this to a name,” she said, not sounding hopeful.

  I was looking at the map again. The road that terminated at the start of the trail up Devil Mountain was the one I had driven on Saturday. The one that passed the spot above the ravine where Green’s father’s car had been found all those years ago. I remembered the little house on that road and asked Green about the old man who lived there.

  “Roland Roussel? Kind of a hermit. Makes David Connor look like the life of the party.”

  “I saw him at the window the other day, just before you pulled me over. I knocked on his door to see if I could talk to him, but he didn’t answer, even though he knew I had seen him in there.”

  “Sounds like old Roussel.”

  We left the computer and gave the rest of the place a once-over. The apartment was so small that it didn’t take long to check thoroughly. If Haycox didn’t show up soon, I knew the next people to visit this place would be a forensic team. As we were heading back to the front door, I saw the boots and the vacuum cleaner and looked down at Green’s feet. Same boots.

  “What?”

  “How many pairs of those do you have?”

  “Just one pair, till they wear out,” she said slowly as she saw where I was going. “Tight budget.”

  I followed Green as she hurried back to the bedroom closet. She pushed the shirts on the hanger back to expose the wall of the closet. There was a small chest of drawers in the corner, leaving about a square foot of space in front. Green kneeled down and examined it. I watched as she trailed her finger across the linoleum on the bottom of the closet, through a fine dust. I looked closer. Not dust, dried mud.

  Green looked up at me. “Wherever he went, he took his walking boots.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Before we left, we gave the backyard a once-over, going around the side of the building. Like the apartment, there wasn’t much to see. Just a square patch of grass and a six-foot wood fence which had been recently painted. As we made our way back out to the street, the door on the ground floor opened. A lady in her seventies or eighties appeared, holding it part-way open. She had fluffy white hair and wore a wool sweater with a red scarf coiled around her neck. She peered at us through big glasses, and it seemed to take her a few moments to decide who we were, and then she opened the door wider and stepped out.

  “Any sign of him, Deputy?”

  Green shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Adams. You already spoke to Sheriff McGregor, I understand.”

  “That’s right. I told him I hadn’t seen him since Saturday morning.” She glanced behind her as though expecting a crowd to be forming, and then stepped closer to Green, giving me a suspicious look. “You don’t think … he could have gotten him, do you?”

  “‘He?’” repeated Green, although it was obvious she knew what the old woman meant.

  She hesitated, as though not wanting to come right out with it. “The killer.”

  “If you’re talking about the two gentlemen who died last night, we still don’t know what happened there,” Green said. “Unless you can tell me different, Mrs. Adams.”

  Mrs. Adams looked around, as though concerned she would be overheard, and then leaned in.

  “You want my advice, go talk to the Connor boy.”

  46

  Isabella Green

  The gravel lot at the foot of the Devil Mountain hiking trail was on the regular patrol routes, and therefore Isabella had driven past Roland Roussel’s place three times a week, but she hadn’t thought of the old man in a long time. Part of that was the effort of not thinking about what had happened to her father on that road back in 2003, of course.

  She pulled off the Devil Mountain road onto the single-lane track that branched off to Roussel’s place. The house seemed to blend into its surroundings, as though it was being slowly reclaimed by the woods. His old pickup truck was parked outside: a blue Volkswagen, looking like the rust was the only thing holding it together. She had never been this close to the house itself. Roussel was another of those Bethany natives who had been around forever, part of the wallpaper. Isabella had given him a warning a couple years back for driving his heap with a broken taillight. He had just listened carefully, nodded, and driven off when she told him to be on his way. She didn’t think anybody in town knew him any better than that, to be honest. The sheriff had told her he was a veteran, but not of which war. Vietnam, probably, or maybe Korea.

  He didn’t answer on the first knock. Blake stepped back to get a better look at the windows. She knocked harder. “Mr. Roussel? It’s the Sheriff’s Department.”

  She heard a scrape of something inside, like somebody pushing back a chair on a wood floor. A minute or so later, the door opened a crack.

  She had seen the old man around town all her childhood, but always from a distance. Up close, Isabella decided Roland Roussel could definitely have served in Korea. Hell, maybe even World War II. He was thin, with white hair and a bushy beard that covered most of his face, leaving a little space for his watery brown eyes and long nose. He glanced over at Blake, then looked at her expectantly.

  “How are you today, Mr. Roussel?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Can we come in?”


  Roussel grunted and turned away from the door, leaving it open. Blake and Isabella exchanged a glance, and followed. He led them down the short hall. Old newspapers and magazines were carefully stacked along one side, like a second wall, built out of newsprint. He showed them into a living room with barely more floor space. Every surface of the 1960s furniture was covered with books and magazines and unopened mail and knickknacks. The place had a musty smell, like an attic. That was exactly what it felt like, an attic. Only someone lived in it.

  “We’re looking for someone, but I’d appreciate it if you could keep it under your hat for the moment.”

  Roussel stared back at Isabella, his face almost totally blank, with a hint of mild irritation. She knew the request was redundant, because she and Blake were probably the first two human beings Roland Roussel had spoken to this year, but she wanted to be careful. She had never had to investigate the disappearance of another cop before, and it felt a little odd. Like a lawyer representing her brother or something.

  “His name is Dwight Haycox. He’s a deputy, like me.”

  “You’re the only cop I’ve seen today,” he said, his eyes shifting meaningfully to Blake, conspicuously un-uniformed. Blake was examining a framed picture on the wall. Some kind of military crest with a dragon, above the words 37th Armor, and a motto that was too small to make out. Blake turned to Roussel, a preoccupied expression on his face.

  “Sorry, I’m Carter Blake,” he said, offering his hand.

  Roussel examined it, and then shook it loosely. “I saw you the other day, down on the road.”

  “That’s right,” Blake said. “I tried knocking on your door, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

  Roussel looked back at Isabella. “What’s this about?”

  “I told you, we’re looking for Deputy Haycox. He might have come by this way, just wondered if you had seen him.”

  “When I saw him looking about, down there …”

  Blake spoke before Isabella had the chance to say anything. “I’m in town on a different matter, I’m just helping out with this.”

  “A different matter?”

  “I’m working for David Connor. Looking into the disappearance of his sister, Adeline.”

  At the sound of the name, Roussel seemed to forget all about Isabella, fixing Blake with a cold stare.

  “She’s dead. Died a long time ago.”

  “You lived here back then?” Blake asked, ignoring the finality in Roussel’s tone. “Did you see anything that night? The car going over the edge must have made a lot of noise.”

  Roussel glanced at Isabella before he spoke. She kept her face completely straight, as though Blake were discussing the weather. Roussel may have been a hermit, but he knew whose daughter she was.

  He shook his head. “Some deputies came by a few days after she disappeared. I hadn’t seen her. Nobody knew she went over the edge down there for months.”

  Blake stared back at him, a polite intensity in his gaze, and Isabella suddenly realized he would make a very good cop.

  It certainly made Roussel uncomfortable. He averted his eyes from Blake and turned back to her. “Are we done? I’m a busy man.”

  They left Roussel and walked back out to the car.

  “Worth the detour?” she asked Blake.

  He didn’t answer, just shrugged noncommittally. Despite their current objective, she knew he was still thinking about his other case. He couldn’t help it, like he had caught the Adeline bug from David Connor. They got back into the car and Isabella drove the rest of the way up the road, until they got to the wide plateau where the road terminated in the circular gravel lot. There was a four-foot-high wooden post that marked the start of the Devil Mountain foot trail. Had Haycox come this way? Maybe they would be finding out soon.

  They got out of the car and Isabella popped the trunk of the Crown Vic. She pulled out the small canvas backpack and itemized the contents. Flashlight, bottled water, energy bars.

  “Be prepared,” Blake commented.

  She allowed herself a small smile. “Being a cop out here is about twenty per cent boy scout.”

  “I was never a scout.”

  Isabella looked over at the start of the trail, then turned back to Blake, looking him up and down. “How fit are you?”

  “I think I can manage it.”

  She gave him a skeptical glance. Before she could say anything, her phone buzzed.

  It was McGregor. Isabella told him where they were headed, and that Haycox’s walking boots had been gone. She didn’t mention the map, or the discussion forum on his computer. She asked if Dentz had had any luck. McGregor hesitated before answering.

  “Actually, I reassigned him. I’ve got him surveilling David Connor’s house.”

  She thought about pressing him on that. Did he have another reason to believe Connor could have been involved in the killings? A reason beyond the apparent link to what happened to his sister? She decided that conversation could wait until they had checked out the extra point on Haycox’s map. From the sounds of things, she was the only one looking for Haycox now.

  “So I’m on my own, then,” she said, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  “Not quite. Mr. Blake’s helping you, isn’t he?”

  Isabella hung up and stared at the blank screen as she thought. McGregor knew fine well Blake hadn’t killed the two hunters. She didn’t know if he really suspected David Connor had either. But all the same, he was making sure the both of them were being watched.

  47

  Carter Blake

  The trail took us up at a steep incline. The path was covered in shale rock, occasionally with short bridges whenever we crossed a stream. We made quick progress, scanning the edges of the path as we walked. There was no point lingering. If we found evidence Haycox had been here, it would have to be on the trail, or very close to it.

  The woods on either side were thick, dark and secretive even though it was a clear, frosty day and the sun was high. Light filtered through over the path but the canopy in the woods shut out the light, making it a perpetual twilight.

  I stopped and took a drink from the water bottle Green had given me, wiping a sheen of sweat from my brow. I caught an amused glance from Green. She looked as though her heart rate was the same as it would be when she was lying on the couch watching a movie. I was in reasonable shape, but it was city shape. It was a long time since I had climbed a mountain.

  “You realize this could all be a coincidence,” Green said after we had been walking for a while. “Haycox could be fine. Those two hunters could have pissed off the wrong guy, the way they did with you. Maybe none of it has anything to do with the fact David Connor asked you to come and look for his sister.”

  “It could be,” I said. “But you’re only thinking about Bethany. It would have to be a coincidence that Wheeler and González were killed too.”

  We passed only a handful of other climbers on the route. It was late in the season, and Green told me that a couple of months earlier, we would be waiting in line at some segments of the trail, but the time of year combined with the cold snap the previous week had cut the numbers down. I counted a dozen other hikers in total as we ascended the two-and-a-half-thousand feet. Green stopped each of them and showed them Haycox’s picture, asking if they had seen him. All of them did the same thing: stared at Haycox’s smiling face and then shook their heads and told us they hoped we would find him.

  We kept going, kept our eyes at the sides of the paths. I thought about what was beyond the reach of our sight, out in the woods.

  After a while, we came to a place where a narrow path forked off from the main one, barely visible beneath the undergrowth. Green checked the map. We were close to where Haycox had put another pin on the map. The branch off the main trail was much narrower, much older. There was a wooden sign recommending climbers
keep to the main path. We took the road less traveled.

  The small path snaked off into the woods, almost blocked off by thorn bushes at one point, and then we had to climb over a felled tree on the other side. After that it became wider and flatter. Ten minutes off the main track, there was a sheer cliff wall, forty or fifty feet high, and a trail that wound off into the woods at its base. Green checked the map and looked up at the point where the cliff plateaued.

  “Up there.”

  I looked up at the cliff wall. I could see the first few handholds I would pick.

  “Looks doable.”

  Green shook her head. “Or we could just follow the trail.” She indicated on the map that it wound around for a quarter of a mile before circling back up at a gentler gradient.

  The trail wound around the cliff until it became a steep slope instead of a vertical. After around twenty minutes, the path forked, hair-pinned and stretched upward at a steep climb.

  A little later we were level with the top of the cliff, an almost flat plateau about fifty feet wide before the steep slope up toward the summit. There were tall, spindly trees all around, and a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was an old stone shelter. It wasn’t much bigger than a shed, with an empty doorway and a slate roof that was sagging but still intact.

  Green was staring at it like it was a suspicious suitcase left in the middle of a train station concourse.

  “Did you know this was here?” I asked.

  “No. Never been up this way before.”

  She drew her gun and approached the shelter. I kept pace with her, watching the shelter and listening for any sign of life. But maybe a sign of life wasn’t what either of us was worried about.

  We drew level with the doorway. There was a musty, damp smell from within. Green let out a slow breath as we saw the shelter was empty. There was an uneven dirt floor, and two benches on either side. I saw an old, crumbling pile of magazines underneath one. I leafed through them. Just some old National Geographics and TV Guides. If this had been the hideout of a killer, I would have expected more extreme reading material.