Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

  As he sat motionless, he again felt a draft. Only this time it was on his face, not on his knees as it had been the day before when he’d used the toilet for more conventional purposes. He turned toward the wall to his right, but as he did the draft dissipated. He sat very still, waiting, and felt it again. A very light stream of cold air was striking his chin and throat.

  He held up a hand and felt the draft, and he examined the fake wood paneling closely, looking for holes or cracks. At first he found none. But when he ran his hand over the wall, he felt a small gap between two of the panels, which ran all the way from the floor to the ceiling. One panel protruded a little farther from the wall than the next, he realized.

  He kneeled forward and looked closely at the gap. It would have been invisible if he were sitting on the toilet. But now, with his head pressed against the wall of the bathroom, he could see it clearly. He tried to stick his fingers into the break to pull the panel away. It was almost wide enough, but the edge of the panel cut like a knife, and was fastened in place more securely than he would have guessed. He couldn’t move it.

  He sat back and tried to think of something he could use to pry the panel loose. He didn’t know what he would find back there behind the panel. Maybe nothing. But his mind told him the draft had a source, and if he could find it . . .

  The puck, he told himself.

  Forgetting his stomachache, he jumped to his feet and ran to the air hockey table. He retrieved one of the thin plastic pucks, and carried it back to the bathroom. He angled it beneath the panel’s sharp edge, and was just about to start working it loose when he heard footsteps overhead.

  He stopped and waited, listening as the steps made their way across the ceiling and to the top of the basement stairs. He heard a whirring noise, followed by the sound of the locks sliding in their tracks. One. Two.

  Thrusting the puck into his pocket, Carson walked quickly out of the bathroom and sat down on his mattress, his eyes never leaving the basement stairs. He was frightened now, his breathing quick. He worried maybe the man upstairs had heard what he was doing and was coming down to punish him.

  But then he saw Josh’s familiar gray sneakers and baggy khaki pants, and he exhaled with relief.

  The boy descended the stairs carrying a tray loaded with food and snacks, and Carson’s stomach rumbled pleadingly at the sight of the bounty. He instantly forgot about the panel in the bathroom. Standing, he walked to Josh’s side.

  “Hey,” Josh said.

  Carson didn’t say anything, or even look at the other boy. He reached for a bag of potato chips, pulled it open, and started stuffing the salty golden disks into his mouth in handfuls.

  Josh, looking a little freaked out, brought the tray to the air hockey table and set it down. “Whoa, are you starving or something?” he asked.

  Carson didn’t answer right away. After finishing the chips, he chomped down half a sandwich in just a few bites, and then reached for the cup of water to wash it down. He picked up the second half of the sandwich and looked wide-eyed at Josh. “I haven’t eaten anything since you were here last night,” he said.

  “Holy shit,” Josh said.

  “Or had anything to drink,” Carson said. This made him think of the bathroom and drinking the toilet water, and he remembered the gap in the panel and the air hockey puck in his pocket.

  “Did you yell?” Josh asked.

  Carson took a bite of the sandwich and looked at the other boy. He nodded.

  “I should have warned you about that,” Josh said. His expression was stricken, and his fingertips worried the worn cuffs of his large sweater. “I’m sorry, that was dumb of me. He doesn’t like it when you yell. He punishes you by taking away food and stuff. He did that to me once when I was down here. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you that yesterday.”

  Carson was too relieved to be eating to care much. “Whatever,” he said. He shrugged at Josh and bit off another mouthful of sandwich.

  “I was wondering why he didn’t bring me down all day,” Josh said. “But I didn’t hear you yell from my room upstairs, so I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine,” Carson said. As he chewed, he thought to tell Josh about the loose panel in the bathroom. With the other boy’s help, he might have more luck prying it loose and locating the source of the draft.

  He swallowed his bite of sandwich and, lowering his voice, said, “Hey, I want to show you something.”

  Josh lowered his own voice to match Carson’s. “What?” he asked.

  Carson waved for him to follow. Carrying what was left of the sandwich, he walked to the bathroom with Josh in tow. When they reached the bathroom door, he started to point to the gap in the wall panel, but he stopped when he saw the two-by-four bearing Mark Stephenson’s writing, which wasn’t visible from the doorway.

  “What is it?” Josh asked.

  Carson thought for a moment, recalling Mark’s message. I don’t trust Josh. He pointed at the toilet and said, “I was so thirsty, I drank toilet water.”

  “Sick!” Josh said, recoiling.

  He nodded. “I know. It’s really gross. But I was so thirsty I was going fucking crazy.”

  He and Josh both laughed, and Carson thought again about revealing his discovery of the loose panel. But again, something told him to keep it to himself.

  The two stepped back into the main room and Carson ate more from the food tray.

  “I was pretty lonely today,” he said.

  Josh nodded sympathetically. “Me too,” he said. “Hey, you want to play Sunset Riders again?”

  Carson looked at him for a second, and then shook his head. “I’m pretty tired. Let’s watch a movie instead.”

  Josh looked a little disappointed, but then he nodded. After choosing The Empire Strikes Back from the shelf of DVDs, the two boys arranged themselves on the mint green couch.

  Ten minutes after starting the film, Carson was asleep.

  Friday, November 8

  Chapter 47

  THE SUN WAS not shining on the streets of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania as David and Martin turned off the town’s main strip of shops and bars and drove into one of the peripheral neighborhoods. Low mountains bulged in the distance, and the temperature was a few degrees colder than it had been in Martin’s neighborhood of Philadelphia.

  Although it wasn’t yet Thanksgiving, holiday decorations dangled from the municipal light posts, and Christmas lights adorned the trees and awnings of several of the homes David and Martin passed as they made their way through town.

  “Your mother and I drove up here the week before Christmas one year, just to go exploring,” Martin said as he gazed out at the passing houses. “Someone Ange knew recommended it for a daytrip, and I remember we enjoyed ourselves. Very small-town America. We’d planned to come back again, but never made it.”

  David looked at him and started to answer, but Martin spoke first. “Turn right up here.” Along with his coffee mug, he held his son’s cell phone in his hands, which displayed a map to Ian Ganther’s residence.

  As they made the turn, Martin pointed out his window and said, “This is probably the park where Christopher Ganther was last seen.”

  David looked past his father. He saw large play structures abutted by a soccer field and a basketball court. Two women stood near one of the play structures, conversing as they watched children too young for school climbing on the structure’s slide.

  “Take a picture of that park for me,” David said, not understanding why but wanting to have it. His father did as he was asked.

  A minute later they pulled up to the curb in front of 8413 Crandle Street. The house was a traditional red brick stand-alone with black shutters and a gleaming maroon door. Small but pleasant, like every other house on the street. Although the cars parked along the curb were uniformly outdated and inexpensive, the lawns in front of the houses were well cared for and free of trash, and the neighborhood seemed nicely maintained, though modest.

  At Ian Ganther’s fron
t door, David knocked three times. He and Martin waited, hands in pockets and feet shuffling to ward off the early morning cold. There was white frost on the small patches of grass in front of each of the homes on the block, and the air smelled like early winter—like nothing.

  After a minute had passed, David knocked again. When there was no answer, Martin said, “Let’s poke around.”

  They walked around toward the back of the house.

  “At least we don’t have to jump any fences this time,” David said, recalling the case they’d worked the previous summer. His father had sprained his knee while accompanying his son over a few fences lining the back patios of a row of townhouses in downtown Washington.

  “Don’t jinx it,” Martin said. “The day’s young.”

  “How’s your knee, by the way?”

  “Perfect,” Martin barked at him over his shoulder.

  The windows in front and along the sides of Ian Ganther’s house were too high for them to look into, but in back there was a small deck that allowed them to peer inside. Both men cupped their hands around their eyes and looked in. Both saw the same kitchen, albeit from different angles.

  A few appliances and kitchen tools were scattered on the countertop, and some built-in shelves to the left of the refrigerator held boxes of cereal, snack crackers, and canned food. The space was outdated but not terribly so—probably ten years old, David guessed. Two swinging doors at the back and side of the kitchen blocked his view of the adjoining rooms.

  He let his eyes play slowly over the kitchen, waiting for something to pop out at him. His eyes stopped when they noticed a paper grocery bag containing crumpled balls of blue plastic. They were newspaper delivery sleeves, he realized. Something about the sleeves shot off a flare in his head, and he leaned back from the window, trying to figure out why. Then he made the connection.

  “What?” Martin asked.

  David turned and saw his father looking at him.

  “I can tell you’ve got something,” Martin said. “What is it?”

  “Maybe nothing,” David said. Without elaborating, he stepped off the deck and walked around to the front of the house with his father trailing a few steps behind him.

  When he reached the front yard, he looked to his left and then to his right. After a few seconds, he glanced back at Ian Ganther’s house.

  “I noticed a bag of old newspaper delivery sleeves back there,” he said to his father. “And I thought of the paper maché masks. Our people told us whoever made them used the New York Times, and I know the Times is delivered in blue sleeves like the ones in Ganther’s kitchen. Around here, having the Times delivered is probably pretty unusual.”

  He paused and pointed up and down the street. “All the other newspapers I see here are in clear bags.”

  Martin looked at the yards of the nearby houses and nodded to his son. “I’m impressed.”

  “There aren’t any accumulated newspapers here in Ganther’s yard,” David said. He pulled his cell phone out and called his team’s office at Quantico. After getting someone on the line, he said, “I need you to get in touch with the New York Times and find out about home delivery to the following address.” He read the number on Ganther’s house, and asked for his people to find out whether service had been changed or terminated.

  He hung up and turned back to Martin. “I don’t think we have enough to request a search warrant. Let’s stop by his old job—that sporting goods store.”

  Martin nodded, and they started to walk back to David’s car.

  As they did, a family of two young boys and a woman who was obviously their mother emerged from the house next door. The three made their way down their front walk toward a minivan parked a few feet behind David’s Lincoln.

  “Excuse me,” David said, calling to the mother.

  She looked at him and called to her children, “Hey guys!” They ignored her, and she rolled her eyes at David and gestured for him to give her a second.

  He and Martin waited as she opened the sliding back door of the minivan for her children, who looked to be elementary school ages—nine or ten years old. When they were safely loaded inside, she turned to David and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Do you know your next door neighbor here, Ian Ganther?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  He removed his I.D. and showed it to her. “We’re hoping to speak with him.”

  The woman’s expression grew concerned at the sight of his FBI credentials. “I haven’t seen him in weeks—maybe months.”

  “Do you know him very well?”

  “Not well, but we were neighborly. Or we used to be. His wife Jess and I were friendly, and she used to stop by once in a while with their son Chris. Sometimes Ian would be with them. I never spoke much with him, but he seemed like a nice enough guy.” Her face tightened. “After everything that happened with Jess and then with Chris, we stopped seeing him except once in a while when we passed each other on the way in or out. I kept waiting for him to move out of that place—you know, to get away from all the memories. But he never did.”

  “Do you live with a husband or boyfriend who might’ve known Ian a little better?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head. “I’m divorced.”

  They were silent for a moment as David looked back up the walkway toward Ganther’s house. He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to the woman. “Would you give me a call if you see Ian?”

  She pursed her lips as she took his card. “Okay. But why are you looking for him?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say,” he said. He smiled his thanks and turned to rejoin his father, who was waiting by their car.

  “Has he hurt any children?” the woman called at his back.

  David turned abruptly. “Why would you ask me that?”

  She blew up her bangs and fidgeted with his business card. “Sometimes I used to catch him watching my guys. This was after his son disappeared. At first I felt bad for him. I figured he was just thinking of Chris and missing him.” She paused, and looked at her sons sitting in the minivan. “But something about the way he would look at them freaked me out. It was just . . . just creepy. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but I worried about it. I feel horrible saying this, but I started to wonder if maybe he hadn’t had something to do with Chris disappearing.” She paused again and offered him a strained smile. “He and Jess were really, really close, and after she died I know he was devastated. There were a few times when Chris came over after school and said his dad hadn’t come home for dinner. Ian would turn up later and offer a weak excuse and an apology, but it didn’t seem like he cared much about his son. He had this kind of dead look in his eyes, like he was catatonic.”

  “And that made you think he might have done something to his son?” David asked.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. “There was nothing really specific I could tell you. Just an uneasy feeling, you know? Mother’s intuition, or whatever you want to call it.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I need to run.”

  He nodded. “Thank you for speaking with me. If you think of anything else or if you see Ian, please call me.”

  She waved his card and climbed into the minivan with her kids.

  Chapter 48

  THE FIRST THING David noticed when he stepped through the door of the small sporting goods store was a soccer ball. It was sitting on top of a display stand near the foot of a miniature mannequin, which was dressed in a child’s purple and gold soccer uniform.

  The place smelled of plastic and rubber—of new equipment and athletic apparel. David’s arms brushed the racks of sweatpants and Philadelphia Eagles jerseys as he made his way to the back of the shop. There, a man in his late sixties was standing with both of his palms resting flat on the countertop.

  “Help you gentlemen?” he asked politely.
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br />   The shopkeeper wore a yellow polo shirt tucked into light-colored blue jeans, and his white hair was thinning and shaved very close to his scalp.

  David introduced himself and Martin. He showed the man his Bureau credentials. “Is this your place?” he asked.

  “Sure is,” the man said, extending a hand. “Walt Schreyer.”

  “Mr. Schreyer,” David said as he shook the shopkeeper’s hand, “we’re wondering about an employee of yours—a man named Ian Ganther.”

  “Part-time employee,” Schreyer corrected him.

  David waited for him to elaborate.

  “Ganther only works for me during the spring and fall uniform rushes.”

  “Uniform rushes?” David asked.

  Schreyer nodded. “For the kids’ soccer teams. We have an agreement with a few of the local leagues to supply the uniforms. It gets pretty hectic in here, so I bring in part-time help. For the past few seasons that’s been Ian.”

  “When are those rushes, exactly?” David asked.

  “March to April and August to September.”

  “What do you pay for that part-time help?” Martin asked him.

  “Not much. Nine-fifty an hour.”

  Martin said, “Pretty low pay for a man Ganther’s age.”

  Schreyer nodded. “Usually I hire one of the local high school students. But then I’m stuck by myself here in the mornings. I knew Ian a little because his son played soccer. This is a small town, and I saw in the paper what happened to his boy. Going missing like he did. Then Ganther comes in one day last fall saying he’d like to help out—that he misses his son and likes being around the kids. I felt bad for him, so I said yes.”

  “What was he like, as an employee?” David asked.

  Schreyer pruned his lips. “Good worker, but quiet. Not real great at chatting up the parents. And to be honest, he’d stare at the kids a little too keen. I had to talk to him about it once or twice. But I forgave him that, knowing what I did about what happened.”