He found the drawer and searched through it with his flashlight. There wasn’t much, and there were no notes, no pieces of paper of any kind.
He turned to the rest of the kitchen. He looked at the fridge. Nothing stuck to it, not a single magnet. He then moved towards the pantry, which was a closet-sized room next to the kitchen table in its little breakfast nook.
He found what he was looking for. There was a notepad with a pen on a string. A little gimmick for grocery lists. There were two words written on the top page. Parsley and Sage. He flipped to the pages after it, but there was nothing. Just those two words were enough, however. While the phrases on the backs of the photographs had been written in bold, architectural style, these here were penned in a kind of juvenile cursive.
Nevertheless, he ripped off the top sheet and returned to the back dining room. He held the small piece of paper next to the photos. No way were they written by the same person, unless the person had split personalities.
It was a possibility, but a remote one. So was the chance that someone else had written the names of the herbs, someone other than Rebecca, and that the difference didn’t clear her at all.
These unlikely scenarios notwithstanding, Brendan felt a rush of excitement. He was even more sure that the sentences on the backs of the photos were written by the killer.
They were haunting. In the cool, drafty farmhouse, he shuddered as he read them. He placed them in a logical sequence and looked them over once more, together. After the original phrase, a kind of darkly poetic message formed.
I was born under the black smoke of September
I was born to you, and your infinite forms, and now I have come for you.
To steal your children, to break you under the moon.
There I once was cradled in that autumn wind, a human as unsympathetic as the winter which follows, with its starving creatures, coming in low through the howling cold.
It wasn’t Edgar Allen Poe, by any stretch, but the poetic prose indicated a couple of things. One, that someone who had access to Rebecca’s home – or had broken in, granted – had premeditated doing her harm, or at least conjectured about it. Two, that the author, the killer, had some degree of education, tainted as it might be by a skewed version of the world.
In the mind of this killer, the world was a cold, haunted place. He seemed to place himself in a superior position. “Born to you, and your infinite forms.” It was kind of pompous.
It was also potentially filial. But Rebecca had no children older than Leah. She would’ve had her daughter at 24 or 25 years old, and while having children younger than that was certainly possible, to have one who was capable of writing this kind of message on the backs of pictures, would have made Rebecca sixteen or younger when she gave birth.
Brendan hesitated. Well, that wasn’t completely unheard of either. Was this message written by another child of Rebecca’s? Someone she’d had at a very tender age who was now twelve, thirteen, even fourteen years old?
He would need to check hospital records again. Problem was, it was like finding a needle in a haystack. So far he hadn’t even been able to turn up where Rebecca had given birth to her daughter, three and a half years ago. He had begun to suspect she hadn’t had the child in a hospital at all, but perhaps had had a home birth.
He would need the little girl’s social security number, her birth certificate, but those might be out of reach. She was the ward of Rebecca’s parents, and the chance of them turning anything over like that was slim to none, controlling and protective as Alexander Heilshorn seemed to be.
Brendan sighed and ran a hand across his mouth. He winced, tasting the rubber of the gloves he’d forgotten he was wearing.
It was all so speculative. He was on the outside now. Pushed out of the investigation by the victim’s own father. He felt so close to something, and yet he didn’t have the proof, the inarguable evidence to connect the dots in his mind.
The killer wrote these words. He was sure of it, but he couldn’t prove it, and it didn’t tell him much about the killer’s identity except for possibilities, interpretation: maybe he had an inflated sense of self, maybe he was Rebecca’s child, maybe he was fucking crazy. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
He would have to turn in the pictures. For one, the handwriting could still be matched to anything else forensics had taken from the house, or anything still left in the house, which may have similar writing on it, and may serve up the author. A long shot, but totally necessary.
The third man that the woman from the vegetable market had seen with Rebecca had hair greying around the temples. He was older than the others, the woman had said. Colinas had later gone back to the elderly woman and shown her pictures: from Kevin to his father, and a slew of others, but she had been unable to identify any of them.
Who was this man? Did he like to write on the backs of photographs?
There was nothing else to go on.
He put the photos together on the table and headed back out to his car. He thought he had an evidence envelope in a box in his trunk.
He left the house and walked through the dirt dooryard. Headlights suddenly blinded him.
Brendan stopped immediately and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Whoever had just flipped on the lights had their brights on, and the lights were fairly high from the ground. They were just sitting there in the driveway, as if they’d been waiting for him. Chances were, whichever deputy was watching the house was going to chew Brendan out for being there. Not because they would know he was off the case, necessarily, but because protocol was to notify the deputy on surveillance, and because whoever it was, Brendan had apparently slipped by them.
He resumed walking, a little smile on his face, and started down the dirt driveway toward them. The vehicle sat with its stunning lights. A second later, the engine came to life.
Brendan slowed and shielded his eyes again, but didn’t stop.
The vehicle dropped into gear – Brendan could hear the transmission. It took a second for him to register what was happening. There was no reason for him to suspect anything. When the vehicle lurched forward, its tires spinning in the dirt, Brendan was shocked.
It came at him full bore. He had the chance to involuntarily utter one phrase – “Oh my God” – before he started to run out of the driveway.
He ran away, taking to the large front yard. He realized only after he had gone this way that the vehicle, with its bright lights shining high from the ground, was a big truck or SUV. It turned and followed him into the yard with no problem. The engine growled as it clunked off the dirt and into the grass, and then it gained speed.
Brendan turned and sprinted towards the house. His only chance was to get inside.
The vehicle was right on top of him, closing in too fast. He wouldn’t make the front door in time. At the last second, he leapt to the right, and the vehicle roared past him – almost. It caught his left side and spun him like a top.
Two revolutions in mid-air, his body twisted like a rag doll, and Brendan came down on his back. Thoomp. The air burst out of him – every last cubic centimeter.
He could hear the vehicle come to a stop and the gear shift into reverse as he struggled to take a breath. No air was getting into his lungs. The vehicle started to back up – it was only a few feet from the front door, and then it turned to the left, prepared to circle around and come at him again.
Finally he sucked in a huge whooping breath of air. He scrambled to his feet, completely unaware of his injuries at first. Then his left leg and hip were white hot with pain, and he almost passed out. He had to put all of his weight on his right foot. His lower back was a mass of agony as he turned and started limping toward his Camry.
The vehicle was a big truck. The crescent moon, visible now in the sky, painted the truck blood red. There were roll bars on top. It grumbled and thrummed and came around in a wide circle, going a ways out into the yard before it was able to aim at Brendan again.
As he ran, hopped, towards
the Camry, his lower body a symphony of pain, he realized that the truck was bound to get him again. By the time he got to the Camry, opened the door, got in, started it up, and pulled away, the truck would be upon him.
He turned then, changing his trajectory to the shed, on the other side of his vehicle.
The truck finished its wide arc and started coming.
Brendan ran as fast as he could. His hip threatened to give way completely on the left side, spilling him helplessly to the ground. He gritted his teeth. He could feel bones crunching each time he brought weight down on his left leg. The truck bore down on him, its engine as loud as thunder.
He bypassed the Camry, bracing himself temporarily on the hood as he slipped past. A few more feet and he would be inside the shed.
He realized that the maniac in the huge pick-up could just plow into the fragile building. It was mere board and batten, nothing that could stand up to a steel beast ramming it at full power. Still, he slipped into the darkness of the shed.
It was only dark for a moment, and then the truck lights illuminated it like the sun.
The lights fell on the tractor, shining off its metal hide, and Brendan, making a snap decision, started to climb up to its seat.
The truck slammed into the shed. Boards burst into a million shards and splinters, instantly reminding Brendan of Kevin Heilshorn shooting out the window.
The entire structure screamed and groaned and listed hard to the left, away from the blow of the truck. Wood squealed against metal as the truck started to back up. It had approached at an angle, and so had taken a huge bite out of one side of the open entrance to the shed. The next time, Brendan knew, the truck would come straight on, and straight in.
He reached the leather bucket seat in the tractor. He looked around for the key.
It was all just coming to him in the moment. There was no plan. All he knew was that as rundown as the old farm was, he was grateful that this John Deere tractor was in good condition. He wondered if he had Donald Kettering to thank.
These were the only coherent thoughts Brendan had for a while. He was distantly aware of his incredible luck that the last person to have driven the tractor had left the keys in the ignition. Outside, the truck withdrew, dimming the light Brendan could see by, but there was time to grab the keys and turn.
Nothing happened.
Brendan remembered about diesel engines. You had to prime them. There was a toggle on the dashboard that he flipped up. An orange telltale lit up above the toggle after a few seconds. Then he tried the key again.
The engine grumbled to life.
He was a city boy, and had never ridden a tractor. But he knew where the gas was. When that truck appeared again, he would slam down on the pedal and ram that motherfucker.
* * *
The truck stopped. Its headlights flooded the shed with blinding light. Brendan’s foot hovered over the gas pedal. A second later, he pulled out his gun.
The lights made it nearly impossible to see anything other than the shape of the truck. The tractor rumbled beneath him, and the truck’s engine idled. The air throbbed with the combined machinery; Brendan felt it vibrating his bones.
There was a thunk and Brendan cocked his weapon. Had the driver just got out? A second later, this suspicion was confirmed when a figure stepped in front of the bright lights.
Brendan aimed his gun at the silhouette with both hands. He hadn’t expected this. He was now a sitting duck. If the driver had a weapon too, there would be no contest. Brendan was nearly blind looking into the flood of bright lights, but he would be perfectly illuminated and an easy target for the driver.
“Stop right there, don’t move!’ He had to shout over the noise of the engines. “Don’t move, or I’ll mow you down. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
His arms were shaking. His entire left side was pulsing with pain; it felt like electric shocks running up and down his leg, like teeth biting into his hip. It hurt just to sit on the tractor seat.
The figure was motionless. It was hard to make out the shape, but it looked like the driver was standing with his arms at his sides. Tough to know if he was carrying a weapon or not.
“I’ll ask you again – who are you, and what are you doing here?”
For another agonizing moment, the vehicles rumbled and the driver said nothing. Brendan couldn’t make out any information, not a license plate on the truck, or its true color. The driver was a silhouette. There may have been some slightly visible human features – some skin tone, the edges of clothing, but nothing definite. In the middle of it all, the fear, the anger, and the pain, Brendan felt a gnawing guilt: He had allowed himself to be trapped like this. He had been backed into a corner, and now he was feeble. Helpless.
He thrust out his gun.
“Answer me!”
The driver spoke. He raised his voice as well, but he didn’t sound like he was shouting. He didn’t sound strained at all.
“Did you visit Eddie Stemp tonight?”
Brendan’s mind raced. His whole body shook. “I asked you who you were. Answer me and I’ll answer you.”
The driver took a step forward. Brendan squeezed the trigger. One more ounce of pressure, and he would be in his second officer-involved shooting of the week. He would take this man down.
“You know who I am,” said the driver.
Brendan froze. The man standing there at the entrance of the shed was the killer.
“Stop right there,” Brendan said. “Don’t come any closer.” His voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
The driver repeated his question. “Did you visit Eddie Stemp tonight?”
Brendan licked his lips. They felt numb. He took a stab at something. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
He was aware that the power was in the hands of the killer. This man had him pinned. He had every advantage.
Bile rose in Brendan’s throat. He thought he was going to throw up. Yet all he had to do was pull the trigger. The killer’s silhouette was thinned by the immensely bright lights. It was still a good enough target.
“He told you about things?”
“‘Things?’ No. He didn’t tell me about things.’” Brendan’s heart slammed against his rib cage. He thought his pulse must be visible. With every beat his body must be pulsing in and out.
He saw a flash of his wife and daughter. They were both sitting in the car. His wife wasn’t looking at him. His daughter was in her car seat in the back, looking at a toy. It was the last time he had seen them.
Then his daughter looked up and smiled.
Brendan fired his gun.
* * *
He knew that if he fired and missed, any chance of a second shot would be minimal. The killer would either draw and return fire, or simply duck out of the lights. Outside of the sun-like blast of headlights, the world was pitch black. Brendan could keep firing, but he would be wasting time getting to cover if he did.
His shot missed.
When the killer disappeared from sight, Brendan dropped his gun and tramped down on the tractor’s accelerator. The tractor lurched forward, nearly bucking him off.
The thing was, it did not move very fast, even though he had put the pedal to the floor. Its engine roared, but it closed the gap between it and the truck far too slowly.
The killer had gotten back into the cab of his pick-up, and thrown the vehicle into reverse. The truck backed away from the oncoming tractor just as the two machines were about to collide.
Brendan drove the tractor on, clearing the shed. Once outside, he could see a little better. The front of the large pick-up swung away, and Brendan caught a glimpse of the killer behind the wheel, caught in the lights of the tractor. The face was just a blur, a flash of salt and pepper hair, there one second, gone the next, and Brendan expected the truck to lurch forward.
It didn’t. The window came down. Something poked out of the
truck that was no handgun, it was bigger. It was the muzzle of an automatic weapon.
The tractor was still moving forward when Brendan leapt from the seat. He hit the ground hard and rolled away, fresh and terrible pain tearing through his leg and hip. When he landed, bright pain encircled his ankle like barbed wire. He rolled in the dirt driveway. He was vividly aware that he no longer had his revolver.
Bullets first sang off the metal of the tractor and then punched into the earth inches from where Brendan lay. The tractor kept advancing, however, and it forced the killer to drive on in his pick-up.
Brendan scrambled to his feet. He thought only briefly about taking shelter in the shed once again. Bad idea. It was just a runway for the truck. He glanced at the house to his left. While the pick-up was traveling away from the front door of the house, the tractor was already slowing and the truck would have a clear line to drop into reverse and come after Brendan as he made for shelter inside the house.
He remembered the barn out in the back. He started hobbling towards the side of the house. It was narrow here between the shed, the trees, and the house; it wouldn’t be easy going for the big pick-up. Brendan ran as best as he could, but his legs weren’t cooperating. His left hip still felt terribly crunchy, as if bone fragments or cartilage grist had been knocked loose in there and were grinding together. His right ankle was a screaming throb of pain from his jump from the tractor. He could barely put weight on it. He took a few awkward, lunging steps and toppled back to the ground.
He desperately turned his head to look behind him. In the front yard, the truck was turning around. Narrow passage or not, it was going to come for him again.
Brendan screamed. He hadn’t expected to; it just came out of him. A wild, guttural yell from somewhere down in the pit of him. It was an animal scream, wretched and primal. In the midst of it he closed his eyes. And then he did something he hadn’t done for years.
He prayed.
He did not pray for long. He opened his eyes and started to pick himself up again. At the same time, he saw something new. At the head of the driveway, another set of headlights turned in from Route 12.
HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 22