Blind River: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  64

  Here lies

  Police Chief Gordon Mackley

  Father of Josh, Curtis, and Monica

  Husband of Barbara

  Protector of Blind River

  July 7th, 1943-April 17th, 2017

  Curtis stared at the tombstone and sighed. He was standing to one side of the grave. The graveyard had been a community gathering place on that day.

  Father Bryan looked exhausted as he went back and forth between the church and the graveyard for the endless funerals.

  Gordon Mackley’s funeral had been first, as it had been the first organized. The turnout had been far greater than Curtis could ever have imagined.

  Many of the attendees had been former supporters of a return to Marino control. After the events of the last few days, maybe they saw that Chief Mackley had made Blind River the best it could be.

  Sam Marino had been transported to a maximum-security prison in Florida, where he would be stripped of the liberties he had earned over years of good behavior at Blind River Penitentiary.

  Robert Randall’s body had been pulled from the Blind River in the early hours of that morning, despite Curtis’s protests that the appropriate punishment would be for his body to rot at the bottom of the pond. The FBI had taken his body wherever they take bodies no one wants to claim.

  Natasha Nolowinski had been fired from her position at the Blind River Observer, but she hadn't been charged with anything.

  She was claiming to be a victim and nothing more. She claimed her apologies had never happened, that Curtis and Frankie were making up a story. Along with the still missing notepad, it was looking like Natasha would walk free. Frankie had already gone back to Manhattan to give their side of the story to Johnson.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” said a voice.

  Curtis looked up. Monica was standing beside him. He looked back at the grave. He'd told Monica about what had happened to Josh.

  “Where’s Trevor?” he said.

  “He headed back to the station," said Monica. "There’s some talk about him becoming the new chief. Tucker always wanted it to be him."

  Curtis smiled as a memory of Trevor came into his head. “Trevor was the guy in high school who got the shit kicked out of him by the hockey captain, right? He was being too cocky as a freshman."

  Monica laughed. “Yeah, that was him. He’ll be glad to know you finally remembered him.”

  “I remember him. Always felt bad for him.”

  “He doesn’t like talking about it.”

  “Trevor would make a great chief.”

  “He was always Tucker’s favorite."

  Curtis sighed. “How was Nate’s funeral?”

  A breeze swept through the graveyard.

  Monica sighed and looked around the full graveyard. Everyone knew someone who had a funeral that day. Among the dead were two police chiefs, two police officers, one FBI agent, one father, and the three murdered girls.

  “I was only married to him for six months," said Monica, "but I felt like I knew him. Listening to the people who really knew him talk about him makes me think twice. It seems like they remember a different person than I do.”

  “Maybe they just remember the best parts.”

  “Maybe.” Monica glanced at him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What happened with Amber?”

  Curtis looked over the tombstones. “I loved her, but I couldn't stay with her."

  “What happened?”

  Curtis took a deep breath. “It all started when she got pregnant.”

  Monica raised an eyebrow. "Did she have the kid?"

  He nodded.

  "And you just left?"

  "No," said Curtis. "I found out it wasn't mine."

  Monica turned and looked at him. She seemed like she was trying to find the right words. Finally, she said, "Amber cheated on you?"

  Curtis nodded. "She came clean about a month after the baby was born. She wanted me to stay and raise it as though it was my own. She tried to tell me she'd made a mistake, and it would never happen again. She said she wouldn't be able to support herself as a single mother."

  Monica sighed. "You didn't believe her?"

  Curtis shrugged. "How could I? She had lied about a kid I'd been treating as my own for a month. So the next day, I left and enrolled in the FBI. I haven't seen her since. I had to make a choice, and I chose the FBI.”

  “Curtis," said Monica. "I don't know what to say.”

  Curtis put his hands into his pockets. “I send her money every month. Just in case she doesn't have enough for the kid.”

  Monica nodded. "Does Melanie know?"

  "Yeah," said Curtis, "and it makes her nervous. She thinks it means I'll be a bad dad, that when something goes south I'll just run away."

  Monica put a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't mean that at all."

  Curtis nodded. "Thanks."

  They stood like that for a few minutes, the closest they'd been to one another in a decade.

  Monica sighed. She took a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to Curtis.

  He unfolded it. Written on the slip was the name of a restaurant. He looked up at Monica.

  “Miranda O’Connell,” she said. “Drop by on your way back to Manhattan.” She sighed. “It was good seeing you, Curtis. Maybe next time you come back to Blind River it’ll be under better circumstances.”

  Monica removed her hand, turned, and walked away, leaving Curtis alone at their father’s grave.

  Curtis stared at the words written there, wondering how anyone could think a few lines could encapsulate a life.

  65

  Curtis pulled off the highway into the diner's parking lot.

  He parked the rental car and walked inside. Men in plaid shirts leaned over the counter, chowing down on bacon and eggs and drinking coffee. They looked up when Curtis entered and took a seat at the counter, eyeing his nice but wrinkled suit for a moment before returning to their meals.

  Curtis took a long sip when the waitress brought him coffee. “Thanks. Some oatmeal with brown sugar, please.”

  “You got it.” The server retreated down the counter to deal with someone else. Curtis sipped the weak coffee and gazed into the kitchen, trying to find her.

  After a few moments, a young girl holding a large bag of uncooked fries walked by and dumped the bag into the deep fryer.

  Curtis took a moment before he realized he was staring. He managed to look casual before Miranda O’Connell met his gaze, giving him a questioning glance before returning to work.

  Curtis kept an eye on her while he ate his oatmeal and paid his bill. He walked out of the restaurant and moved his car to a spot where he could see all the exits.

  Almost two hours later, Miranda O’Connell exited the back door of the restaurant. She walked toward a bike locked to a chain link fence.

  Curtis exited the car and walked toward her.

  “Miranda,” he said as he approached.

  She froze, then tried to pretend she hadn’t heard him, continuing to unlock her bike from the fence.

  “Miranda O’Connell," he said. "I have something of yours.”

  She turned toward him, her hands still on the bike lock. Her eyes opened wide when she saw the dirty, blood-covered butterfly hairclip in Curtis's hand.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “FBI Special Agent Curtis Mackley. I’m not here to arrest you or to take you anywhere, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Prove it,” said Miranda.

  Curtis took out his identification and threw it to her. She caught it, read it, and nodded before chucking it back.

  “I heard you caught the killer.” Miranda crossed her arms.

  “We did.”

  “So what am I? A loose end?”

  Curtis shrugged. “You can call it that if you want.”

  Miranda looked at the diner. “What do I need to say to make you leave?”

  “T
ell me why you faked your kidnapping.”

  Miranda shrugged. “I couldn’t take it. The pressure from my parents was unbearable. I just wanted to be a teenager, have fun, hang out with my friends. My parents wanted me to study and boost my college resume all day every day.”

  “Surely they didn't want to destroy your social life.“

  “I didn’t have friends.” Miranda looked away. “Not one. My parents were convinced family was all I need and that success was all that mattered. It was about how it reflected on them. It was nothing to do with me. I’ve had more fun and made more friends in the weeks since I ran away than I have in my entire life. Isn’t that what life is about? Making relationships that matter?”

  Curtis fingered the butterfly hairclip. “Your parents deserve to know. They love you.”

  Miranda shrugged. “You can tell them. I’m not going back. I turned eighteen. You can’t make me.”

  Curtis was about to speak, but there was something in Miranda’s voice that seemed final.

  Curtis smiled. “If you say so.”

  He tossed Miranda the hairclip, then held out his contact card. “If you ever need anything, give me a call.”

  Miranda walked up to him tentatively, grabbed the card then retreated. “Thank you.”

  Curtis nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back to his car, without looking at Miranda.

  He shot her one last glance in the rearview mirror as he drove away.

  Curtis knew he'd done the right thing. There was something about Miranda that had been missing from all those family photos Curtis had seen. She looked happy.

  It was the same smile Amber had when she told him she was pregnant.

  Curtis pulled over to the side of the road, sweat beading on his forehead. He’d driven less than a mile.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed Frankie.

  She answered on the third ring. “This is Lassiter.”

  “Frankie, it’s me.”

  “Curtis," said Frankie. "How are you doing? How was the funeral?”

  “It was fine. How are things there?”

  “Johnson believed my version of events.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was there another reason you called?” said Frankie.

  “Yes, there was.” Curtis was silent for a long moment. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to go on the FBI database and look up Amber Henderson, born March 16th, 1985."

  “What's this about, Curtis?”

  “It’s about her son. I had the option to raise him and chose to join the FBI instead."

  There was a long silence. “I’ll check," said Frankie.

  The call ended. Curtis turned on the air conditioning. He pulled back onto the road and headed for home, feeling more confident about his future than he had in a long time.

  For the duration of the drive back, all he could think about was Amber's child and the child he would have with Melanie, who was due to give birth in five months.

  When he got home, he parked on the side of the road. He turned off the car and sat there for a few moments. There were lights on inside. He could see Melanie moving around inside, probably wondering when Curtis would be back or if he would leave her like he did to Amber.

  “I came back,” he said, stepping out of the car and walking toward the house. “Just like I promised.”

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  Other Books by Ben Follows

  The Absence of Screams

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  Read the first chapter below!

  A wave of heat hit Marcus as he stepped inside the pub, steadying himself against the doorframe to give his shaking legs a break. The leaves outside were beginning to change color, but Marino's Pub seemed to think it was the dead of winter in Antarctica.

  He closed the door and breathed in the scent of dollar store candles. A cheap radio played static-ridden 70’s songs. The tables were faux wood and wobbled when anyone leaned too heavily on them. Cheap liquor was displayed on the wall behind the bar.

  Marcus looked around the bar. He had followed the car from the house down the street. He knew the person he was looking for was here somewhere. Just as he began to think she had snuck out the back, his eyes settled on the hunched over woman at the bar. He smiled and made his way over to the bar, trying to look casual. He sat a few seats down from his target.

  “How’s it going?” said the bartender. Her name tag identified her as Beth. She was a broad-shouldered woman who could easily have doubled as a bouncer. A cigarette hung from her lips despite the "No Smoking" sign hanging directly above her head.

  Marcus adjusted his legs in front of the barstool. He hadn't walked this much in years.

  He ordered a beer, which Beth dropped in front of him. He took a sip and scrunched up his face. It was room temperature.

  "Do you have anything cold?" he asked.

  Beth cleaned a glass and placed it in the sink. "Tell management to buy me a new fridge and you'll get a cold beer."

  Marcus pushed back the bottle. "I'm not paying for this."

  Beth shrugged and dumped it down the sink.

  Marcus kept glancing at his target, the only other person at the bar. She was a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair. She wore a wrinkled white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. She was leaning over the bar and scrolling through her phone. Her hair made a curtain around her face.

  She looked up and raised her glass of cheap whiskey. Her nose was slightly off-center.

  "You must not be from around here," she said. "This place is all about the liquor."

  Marcus turned to Beth. "Get me whatever she's having. Do you have a menu?"

  Beth got him his drink and a menu. He ordered a burger and passed the menu back.

  The woman smirked at him. “You look like you've had a rough day."

  Marcus eyed her. He hadn't expected her to initiate the conversation. This was going to be easier than he thought.

  “I've had a rough life," he said.

  She nodded. “I could say the same.”

  Marcus had an urge to tackle her to ground right then and dig his fingers into her throat. Instead, he nodded and sipped his drink. He looked away from her and watched the hockey game on the screens above the bar.

  “I’m Tatiana," said a voice beside him.

  The woman had moved to the barstool beside him and was holding out a hand. She had left her purse and empty glass at her prior seat.

  Beth placed a new drink in front of her without needing to be asked.

  “I'm Paul.” Marcus shook her hand, making up a name on the spot. He was shocked she was talking to him, as if she knew who he was. "Are you from around here?" he said, trying to make casual conversation.

  “I live here in Harper's Mill. Don't hold it against me." She laughed and sipped at the whiskey. “I live on a farm down the road. It's a ten-minute walk.”

  “That's nice.” His heart was beating in his chest.

  “Thanks.” Tatiana took a sip of her whiskey. "Been having a rough time recently."

  Marcus nodded. "What's that?"

  Tatiana sighed. “I don't want to push my problems onto you."

  "What's wrong?"

  Tatiana sighed and downed her whiskey. "Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I'd left when I turned eighteen.”

  Marcus frowned, becoming convinced she knew who he was and was messing with him.
/>   “What would you have done differently?" he said.

  “I went to Manhattan for a summer job once. I was part of the tech crew for a production of Hamlet. Cities are mostly the same. In Manhattan, though, it seems impossible to ever get lonely.”

  “Harper's Mill isn't like that?"

  Tatiana shook her head. “Not at all.”

  "Why don't you leave?" said Marcus, feeling like he was getting close. "What's stopping you?"

  Tatiana reached back to her previous stool and grabbed her wallet from her purse. She took a few photos from one of the card slots.

  “These are my twin boys." She handed him a small picture.

  Marcus took it tentatively. The picture depicted two boys, under the age of five, formally dressed and sitting in front of a Christmas tree. There was no mistaking they were Tatiana's children.

  “Couldn't the father take of them if you wanted to go somewhere?” said Marcus, trying to come up with anything to keep the conversation going.

  Tatiana laughed. “They wouldn’t last one week without me. Charles is a great guy and he loves the kids, but he’s not a family man."

  “Why don't you take a vacation?” Marcus's sentence trailed off.

  There was another picture stuck beneath the pictures of the boys. He didn't think Tatiana had meant to give it to him.

  He moved the top picture away, revealing a picture of a teenage girl in a graduation gown and cap, holding flowers in front of her. She had dark hair and a pointed chin.

  Marcus stared at the picture, his mouth open in shock. A decade of emotions he'd pushed down as far as it would go threatened to come to the surface. All the terrible things he'd done were in pursuit of finding this girl, who had been wrenched away from him on that fateful night eleven years earlier, the worst night of Marcus's life.

  “That’s my older daughter,” said Tatiana, following his gaze. “That photo was taken at her high school graduation a few years ago. She’s applying to colleges. She wants to go into television production." She looked up at Marcus and frowned. "Are you okay?”