Mitch liked this house, indeed, because it was more than a house; it was a home. And the more he explored it and enjoyed its comforts, the more it reminded him of his grandparents’ home.
Returning to the first floor, Mitch found the cellar door in the hallway near the kitchen and opened it. Worn, wooden steps descended into the underbelly of the house. Cool air rose from the space and carried with it an earthy smell. The house was old, probably early 1800s, and therefore the foundation was old, constructed of the same fieldstone found in the barn. To the right was a light switch, so Mitch flipped it. Light illuminated the cellar, revealing an unpainted concrete floor.
Mitch descended the steps and found the cellar in the same order as the rest of the house. Storage bins were neatly stacked and labeled along the far wall. A new hot water heater and small, energy-efficient furnace sat under the staircase. The rest of the space, which ran the full length of the house, was mostly empty save for a washer, a dryer, an old exercise bike, and another workbench loaded with a complete set of hand tools. Two naked bulbs, one on each half of the cellar, gave the area an almost prison-like aura.
Yes, the house and barn were both perfect. Mitch pulled in a deep breath and smiled. He loved this farm. It was everything he’d hoped it would be. He rubbed his hands together and laughed with excitement.
Upstairs again, on the first floor, he went to fridge, removed a can of orange soda, and popped the top. He took a long swig, downing half the can at once.
Outside he heard the crunch of gravel under tires. Someone was there, come to visit the Appletons. Quickly he exited the kitchen and crossed the house to peer out a front window. A Honda Passport sat next to his truck, a man behind the wheel. Due to the glare on the windshield, Mitch couldn’t make out what the man looked like. He sat there for a few seconds then got out of the vehicle. Tall and lean, he was dressed nice in khakis and a blue short-sleeved polo shirt with some kind of logo on the left breast. He looked to be mid-twenties and carried a clipboard in one hand. Standing by the Passport, he looked around and squinted into the sun. A salesman, had to be. He glanced at the clipboard then headed for the house.
Mitch realized he’d left the front door open.
Chapter 9
AMY STOOD AT the mirror, combing the tangles out of her hair. She was still a little shaken. Had she imagined the sound of the door opening and closing and the hand retreating from the shower? She’d never had hallucinations before. She was grieving, yes, but she wasn’t crazy.
She placed a hand on her abdomen and thought of the daughter she should have had. Strangely, she thought of Louisa. The blonde hair and blue eyes. The freckles. The delicate features. She was everything Amy had ever imagined her own daughter looking like. But there was that feeling again, the sense of distrust and unease. Who was this intruder in her home? Where had she come from?
Amy scolded herself for being so cynical, so paranoid. She was a girl, nothing more. Someone’s daughter who had either been abducted or lost or abandoned. She needed love right now, not some suspicious, grief-stricken woman giving her the cold shoulder.
Heading out of the bathroom and down the stairs, Amy couldn’t help but hope that Chief Miller had found the girl’s parents or at least solved the puzzle of who she was and how she wound up in Jake’s burning house.
Louisa was seated on the sofa in the living room, Jim next to her. The girl’s eyes widened when she saw Amy, and she said, “Good morning, Miss Amy.”
Amy smiled. “Good morning, Louisa. Did you sleep okay last night?” She sat in a plaid upholstered chair across from the sofa.
Louisa followed her with her eyes. “Oh, yes. I slept real good.”
“Did Mr. Jim get you some breakfast already?”
A smile stretched Louisa’s mouth almost ear to ear, and her eyes flashed like the clearest aquamarines. “We had waffles and ice cream.”
Amy gave Jim a sideways look. “Waffles and ice cream, huh? Wow, what a treat.”
“Waffles and ice cream was a staple when I was growing up,” Jim said. “Sure beats sausage cooked in lard and birthday cake. And it’s a nutritious part of your daily diet. You know, vitamin D, good for the bones and teeth and eyes.” He winked at Louisa.
“Louisa.” Amy shifted in the chair. “Did you come into the bathroom this morning while I was showering?”
Louisa glanced at Jim then back at Amy. “No.”
“Are you sure? I thought I saw you in there.”
Again, the furtive glance toward Jim, and Amy couldn’t help but feel the girl was hiding something. “No. I was in the kitchen eating my waffles and ice cream.” She was lying, Amy was sure of it now. She had sensed her in there, seen her hand in the shower.
“Then why did I—”
Jim stood rather abruptly. “Amy, can I have a word with you in the kitchen?”
Without saying another word to Louisa, Amy stood and followed Jim into the kitchen.
He kept his voice low. “What’s going on? What was that all about?”
“She was in there with me. While I was in the shower. She reached in and touched my abdomen again.”
“What? You’re sure?”
She paused—was she sure?—and knew immediately that her hesitation spoke louder than her words. “Yes. I’m sure. I was rinsing my hair and felt her hand on my stomach. When I opened my eyes, she pulled it back real quick.”
“And you saw her in the bathroom with you?”
The fact that Jim felt it necessary to grill her annoyed Amy. He didn’t believe her. “By the time I opened the curtain she was gone. She’d left the room.”
Jim rubbed his jaw and closed his eyes. “Amy, she was with me the whole time. Here in the kitchen, eating her breakfast. There’s no way she could have gone upstairs and sneaked into the bathroom without me seeing her.”
“Were you with her the whole time?”
“Ye—” He stopped mid-word, dropped his eyes. “No. Chief Miller stopped by, and I was in the living room talking to him for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Ten minutes, maybe. Not even that long.”
“Long enough for her to sneak upstairs and come into the bathroom without you seeing her.”
Jim pressed his lips into a thin line. “She said she didn’t, though. Why would she lie?”
Now Amy was really annoyed. Jim not only didn’t believe her, but also he was siding with the girl. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side, just trying to figure out what’s going on here.”
“What did Miller say?” Maybe changing the subject would cool them both down.
Jim looked toward the living room. “He hasn’t found anything out yet. Asked us to keep her until he did.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I’d have to talk to you. Make sure you were on board with it.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?”
Amy lowered her voice even further, to a whisper. “I don’t trust her.”
“She’s a kid, for crying out loud, Amy. A little girl.”
“I don’t trust her.”
“Amy, listen to yourself. She’s a nine-year-old little girl. Who knows what she’s been through? Her parents could be dead or halfway to Mexico by now. Or they could be worried sick about her. If she was our daughter, wouldn’t you want someone like us to care for her? Okay, maybe she was in the bathroom with you, maybe she misses her mother and you look like her. Maybe she just wanted to be close to someone. She’s been traumatized. I’m willing to overlook some odd behavior. Give it a try, babe. This might be just the thing we need to get us out of this funk we’ve been in.”
He made sense. Amy hated to admit it, but he did. Maybe the girl used to sit in the bathroom while her mother took a shower. Maybe she longed for some kind of familiarity. Maybe Amy’s paranoia and distrust were more a reflection on her than Louisa.
She nodded and forced a little smile. “All right. We’l
l see how it goes.”
“Good.” Jim kissed her lightly. “Thank you. I’m going to take her out and buy her some clothes while you get ready.”
“Good idea.”
He hesitated, eying her. “What do you think of putting her in the spare bedroom?”
She stiffened. By “spare bedroom” he had to mean the baby’s room, since the other bedroom had been converted into his home office. “She seems fine on the sofa.”
“But I want her to begin to feel at home here. The sofa seems so ‘Hey, why don’t you crash at our place for the night.’”
“She is crashing at our place.”
“But she’s a little girl, not some college buddy who dropped by while he was in town. She needs stability, consistency.”
Amy pressed her lips together.
“Okay, okay,” he conceded. “How about if I just set up a cot for her in my office?”
Amy nodded. “All right, but—”
Amy turned and found Louisa standing by the kitchen entryway, arms at her sides. “I’m sorry I upset you, Miss Amy. And I’m sorry about your baby.” She smiled, but there was something about her grin that Amy didn’t like, something . . .
No, she had to stop imagining things.
Chapter 10
THE SALESMAN KNOCKED on the open front door. “Hello?” Mitch didn’t do anything. He stood in the kitchen with his back against the wall and waited as quietly and patiently as a lion bides his time in the tall grass. Maybe the guy would go away.
He didn’t, though. He entered the house and stood in the entryway. “Hello? Anyone home?”
His voice was high and squeaked on “anyone.” Still, Mitch remained quiet. He heard the salesman’s feet shuffle along the wooden floor, heard him snort deep in his sinuses.
Again, “Hello? Anyone here?”
The footsteps retreated from the house, and Mitch heard the man’s boots clop on the front porch, down the stairs. A thought came to him then: any salesman worth his salt wouldn’t give up so soon. Mitch’s truck was parked out front and the front door was wide open; the man would assume someone was home and go searching for that someone. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity to give his precious sales pitch. He’d look in the barn next; it was the only logical place. And there he’d find . . .
Mitch grabbed a large knife from the countertop and ran through the house. He hit the porch and stopped. The salesman was already halfway to the barn.
“Hey!” he called after the man.
The man turned, shielded his eyes from the sun.
“They’re not home,” Mitch said.
The salesman talked as he walked. Dust stirred into little clouds around his feet. “Who are you?”
“Carpenter. Doing some work in the basement. Heard you calling, but it took me a second to get up the stairs.”
“Are the owners home?”
“Naw, they went into town to get some groceries and run some other errands, I think.”
“Bummer,” the man said. “I was hoping to catch ’em.” Reaching the porch, he stopped, his hands on his waist, and smiled broad, flashing some of the whitest teeth Mitch had ever seen. “Reel ’em in, know what I mean?” He winked.
“Sure. Hook ’em and reel ’em in. I know just what you mean.” Mitch didn’t like the salesman. Young, cocky, no respect for anyone. He knew the type.
The man stuck out his hand. He held a business card between his index and middle fingers. “Cody Wisner, EnviroPride. Could you tell ’em I was here? Give ’em the card there?” He was twenty-something, thick shock of brown hair, combed neatly to the side (too neatly). He was full of himself, too confident in his own ability to make a sale.
Mitch looked at the card. Cody Wisner, Agricultural Consultant. “Agricultural consultant, huh? You go to college for that title?”
“Sure did. Penn State. Nittany Lion through and through.”
“Well, that’s real nice.”
Wisner hesitated, pointed at the card. “Give ’em the card, huh?”
Mitch forced a smile. He certainly didn’t like this kid. “Sure thing. I’ll set it on the kitchen counter and make sure they get it.”
“Thanks, sport.” Mitch found the arrogant salesman’s smile annoying. “And just tell ’em I’ll swing by again tomorrow.”
“No problem.”
Wisner turned to leave, but when he was midway back to the Passport, Mitch stopped him. “Wait. Agricultural . . . ”
Wisner stopped, spun around. There was that plastic smile again. “Consultant. I consult, you know? Help farmers find the best fertilizers and pesticides. All natural stuff too, none of that chemical junk. Best products on the market.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Mitch left the porch and approached the salesman. “I got one of those cards too. Just in case you ever need any carpentry done.” When he reached Wisner, he went for his back pocket, but instead of retrieving a genuine cowhide wallet, he pulled out the knife from the kitchen counter and plunged it into the young salesman’s stomach.
After dragging the salesman—Cody Wisner, Agricultural Consultant—to the backyard by his ankles and parking him in a shady area by the house, Mitch Albright stood over the corpse and tried to steady his shaking hands. They said the first kill was the hardest, but from there it got easier. For Mitch the killing wasn’t hard at all. He was so empowered by adrenaline that it happened and was over before he realized what he’d done. It took a few minutes for Wisner to die, for the life to leak out of him, during which time Mitch made steady eye contact with his first victim. He relished the look of respect Wisner gave him, the reverence that was there until his final breath was drawn and exhaled.
Afterward Mitch went to the Passport and rummaged through the interior, removing anything that would identify it as Cody Wisner’s. He’d have to ditch the vehicle, of course. He’d drive it to a remote spot on the farm and leave it there, out of view. By the time anyone found it, he’d be gone, leaving nothing behind but a mystery.
When he finished and returned, he thought for a moment that Wisner was still alive, that some small trace of life was still surging through the punk’s veins, but it was only an illusion.
Wisner’s head was cocked to one side at an odd angle, and his left eye was open and appeared to be fixed on his murderer. Mitch squatted and was about to shut it when the eye triggered a flash memory. Southeast High. Freshman year. Hands pulling at him, hitting him, messing his hair, finding the elastic band of his underwear and yanking, so hard it tore skin. For a week it hurt to sit. Using the bathroom was plain torture.
Closing his eyes, Mitch drew in a deep breath of clean, country air. There was nothing like it. It filled the lungs with oxygen and cleared the mind. Steadied the nerves. The memory eventually faded.
He’d leave Wisner’s body here for now then return for it later. Tonight it would all begin and then continue for the next six days. The townspeople of Virginia Mills would have hell descend upon them, and when it was all over, when his mission was complete, he would be a respected man, not because of the clothes he wore or the car he drove or the job he had, but because of who he was. They would all respect him.
Returning to the barn, Mitch found Bob propped up against the post, groggy-eyed and confused like he’d had too much to drink. His wife, Clare, was still unconscious next to him. Or maybe she was dead; Mitch couldn’t tell. He squatted before Bob and looked him in the eyes but didn’t say anything. For a few long seconds Bob stared back. His eyes were glassy, and dried blood smudged his cheek.
Mitch removed the gag from the farmer’s mouth.
“You okay, Bob?” Mitch said. “You look kind of confused.”
Bob’s eyes moved around the barn. “Wha–what happened?” Finally they landed on his wife. “Is she . . . ”
“Dead? I don’t think so. I didn’t hit her that hard. ’Course, some people just have thin skulls.” He reached over and found Clare’s carotid with two fingers. A pulse was there, thin and thready, but there. “I guess she’s got
a thick skull.”
“She’s alive?”
“For now.”
“What are you—”
“Doing here?” Mitch shrugged, looked around the barn. He was still impressed by its size and orderliness. “You’re a respected man, aren’t you, Bob?”
Bob didn’t say anything. He appeared confused by Mitch’s odd question.
“And you’re respected not because you’re an American farmer, not because you live a simple life and own acres of land and a beautiful house.” He glanced at Clare. “Not because of your lovely wife. You’re respected because of who you are as a man, as a person. I imagine you’re honest and kind and selfless. Patient, hardworking, loyal. A real man of integrity. You were very quick to offer help to a new farmer who hadn’t a clue what he was doing. I respected you, and that’s why you’re still alive.”
Mitch tapped the sole of Bob’s work boot. “For some of us respect doesn’t come that easy.”
He stood and withdrew the knife from his back pocket. There was still some smeared blood on the blade. “Now, I’m going to need both of you to come with me to the house. So if you don’t mind, wake up your wife.”
Bob hesitated, stared at Mitch with wary eyes.
“Come now, Bob. You and Clare were very nice to me. I don’t want to hurt either of you anymore, but we need to do this. Now wake her up and let’s go.”
Gently, as if he were waking her from a deep nap on a Sunday afternoon, Bob stroked Clare’s hair and rubbed her cheek. His actions were loving and tender, for that was the kind of man he was. Eventually her eyes fluttered open, and she stared blankly at her husband as if he were a stranger.
“Clare, darling, I need you to wake up,” Bob said. His voice was soft and tight. He didn’t want his wife to see him cry. Mitch was touched by his bravery.
Clare pushed herself to sitting, wincing more than once. Her head must have been killing her. She looked up at Mitch, confusion clouding her eyes, then found the knife in his hand.
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