Wolfe in Shepherd's Clothing

by David Gane

  We hit gravel, and I have to slow down a bit. It’s fresh and loose and Dad’s car swings and whips until I steer into the smooth-packed tracks.

  “Pretty sure your dad wouldn’t be happy with you totalling his ride,” Charlie says as he takes a quick snapshot of the map.

  “Especially since we’ve broken parole and I took it without permission.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  We drive through another valley with a creek running through it, and Charlie lifts his phone, looking for a signal. Finally he sighs and gives up. “I think that’s it. All we’ve got now is a paper map and our wits.”

  I smile. “Well then, we’re screwed.”

  Charlie grins, and turns to stare out at the curves and undulations of the countryside. “Everything around here must run into that big valley we just went through.”

  I look over at him.

  “You know, you should study geology or geography after you graduate. Could be a career in it for you.”

  “Ha. Yeah, right.”

  “Well, you seem reasonably smart—” I say.

  “Thank you, oh wise one.”

  “Seriously, though. You’re good at this stuff. You must have the grades—”

  “Shepherd, I’d need to graduate first, then I’d need to care about university—”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I ask, incredulous.

  He sighs, staring out the window. He never answers.

  I push. “Charlie, why not?”

  He ignores the question. “Turn right at the next road.”

  “Charlie—?”

  “Next right, Shepherd.”

  He’s not going to say any more and I accept that this conversation is done.

  At the crossroads, I slow and take the turn, heading back toward the large river valley.

  chapter 119

  The wide gravel road narrows and, after the last intersection, the road turns to dirt. Charlie tells me to keep driving until we’re almost on the edge of the valley.

  “Slow down,” Charlie mutters. “This is it.”

  On our left is a small wooded area. I wouldn’t even think there was a farmyard in there if it weren’t for the windmill poking above the tree-tops.

  “Keep going. There’s a road into that field on the other side of the yard,” he instructs.

  Makes sense. The less chance Harriet is aware of our arrival, the better.

  If he’s here.

  I peer down the driveway as we pass it, but it’s long and bends, so I’m not able to catch a glimpse of the house. I drive on and pull into the second approach. The tires sink immediately. If I don’t back out now, I’m going to get stuck for sure. I put the car in reverse and pull us back out onto the main road.

  “Looks a little soft. Might wreck your kicks,” Charlie says.

  Ruining my shoes is the least of my concerns. I grab my phone and climb out of the car. Instead of using the remote and letting it beep, I handlock the doors.

  “Thought we should stay quiet,” I say.

  “Good idea,” Charlie says, pulling the lockpick out of his backpack before tossing the bag into the backseat with a clunk. “Probably best to travel light, too.”

  He takes the lead, walking along the shoulder of the road. It’s mucky and soft, but the deep grass holds the earth together, making for fairly easy going. As we enter the driveway, we trek along the treeline so we can scout the place out. The poplar trees lining the road are thick and wild. Fallen logs and solid underbrush make it seem menacing. Although walking through it looks impossible, a wild animal or Harriet himself could easily be lurking somewhere in its depths, waiting to pounce.

  “I thought we were done with spooky woods after last summer,” Charlie says.

  “You and me both.”

  He grins. “At least you came out of it better than me.”

  I know he doesn’t blame me for what happened, but I feel responsible.

  “I really wish I knew what we’re walking into,” I say.

  He looks at his phone. “And I really wish there was some damn cell service when we’re tracking a killer.”

  We round the bend of the driveway and the trees open to reveal the farmyard. It’s overgrown and wild; small saplings have begun to reclaim the clearing. A half-collapsed barn with white peeling paint lies in the rubble of its foundations on our left, and on the right, the windmill reaches up to the sky. One of its blades has fallen off, leaving it lopsided and useless. In the centre of the clearing is a large brick farmhouse. Caraganas sprout high along its sides. The place would look abandoned with its wild, weathered look and its boarded-up windows, if it weren’t for the freshly crushed swath of grass that tracks a path toward the house.

  “Somebody’s been here,” Charlie says.

  “Fairly regularly by the looks of it.”

  We stay close to the trees, studying the yard.

  “No good way to approach the place,” Charlie says. “If someone’s in there, they’ll spot us.”

  I consider the caraganas. “Let’s sneak in from the side. Maybe the bush will give us some coverage.”

  We track along the perimeter of the yard and flank the house.

  Charlie finds an old, fallen tree, and kicks off a branch, removing its extra limbs, gripping it tightly in his fist like a club. “Just in case,” he says.

  As we move quietly toward the house, I realize it’s less weathered and forgotten-looking than I’d first thought. Some of the windows are boarded up, but a few of them on the main floor still have glass, though they’re dirty and covered by newspaper on the inside. I’m surprised to see solar panels on the roof. And there’s a small shack behind the house with wires running to it, most likely housing a gas generator like I’ve seen at cabins at our lake.

  “How much you want to bet this place is off the grid?”

  Charlie nods. “And do you smell that?”

  “Yup, he’s been burning stuff here too.”

  “No vehicles around here, but—”

  “We might not be alone.”

  We arrive at a porch that runs around the front of the house. Although the railing is dilapidated and the flooring is broken and rotten, the front door looks solid.

  Charlie hands me his stick. “I’ll check it. You stay here. Watch my back.”

  He climbs the steps, stepping on the side of each tread to avoid making too much noise. The porch is a minefield of loose boards, and he’s cautious as he crosses to the door. He turns the handle and gives it a shove, but it remains firmly shut.

  He moves back down to me. “Jammed tight,” he whispers.

  Let’s go around, I signal, and we move farther along the right side of the house.

  We duck to avoid being seen through any of the windows. Even though they’re covered with newspaper and overgrown caraganas, someone might still be able to see us from the inside. The basement windows are also boarded up, but some small animal about the size of a fox has made a trail through the thick, low brambles and found a way inside through a broken slat along the back of the house.

  “Something stinks around here, and not in an ice-cream-gone-bad sort of way,” Charlie says quietly.

  I agree. The stench is deep and nasty, soaked into the soil and soul of the place.

  We edge around to the back until we find a second door on the far side. A padlock holds it shut. It has a small, grimy window, and I peek through a thin sliver where the newspaper doesn’t quite cover.

  “Could be the kitchen. I think I see a sink.”

  Charlie works on the lock, unclasps it, and pushes.

  The heavy door sticks on the frame and the two of us work together to force it open as quietly as possible.

  chapter 120

  The smell is worse inside.

  We creep cautiously through a small mudroom into a
large kitchen. An old gas stove sits beside a counter that leads to a sink on the left. There is a row of cupboards next to a small pantry and a pale green and chrome fridge on the right. Everything has a layer of dust on it, but Charlie runs his hand along the bottom of the sink basin.

  “It’s been used recently,” he whispers.

  On the floor is a square outline in the wood with a metal ring.

  “Either leads to the basement or a cold cellar,” Charlie says.

  “Should we look?” I ask, keeping my voice low to match his.

  He shakes his head, but kneels down anyway and grabs hold of the clasp. “Get that club ready. One … Two …” On “three,” he yanks it open and the stench of sweet rot rises up, followed by a flurry of fruit flies.

  Holding a deep breath, I grab my phone and shine a light down. At first, it looks like just dirt, but then I see crumbled wood and broken glass jars.

  “Cold cellar,” Charlie says. “What a mess. The whole thing has collapsed. The shelves must have rotted out and everything just fell.” He shuts it quickly.

  “It’d be nice if that’s all the smell was,” I say.

  The stench is more pungent and meaty than can be accounted for by fermented fruit.

  “Yes, it would be,” he says as we weigh the options of where to go from here.

  Ahead is a dimly lit dining room with an opening to the living room in one wall, and on our left is a doorway leading from the kitchen to a dark hallway.

  I have the sinking feeling that we’re eventually going to have to go into that darkness. Charlie must think so too, because before we leave the kitchen, he searches the drawers for a knife. He finds nothing.

  I lead us into the dining room first, though, the big stick ready to swing. The table and chairs are draped with a white cloth; a tall cabinet, also covered, rests against the far wall. Dust rises into the air as I pull back the sheet on the table and look beneath. It’s a solid piece of furniture, handcrafted out of two-by-fours. Well-worn, comfortable-looking chairs surround it.

  “Quality craftsmanship,” Charlie whispers.

  Only he would comment on such a thing when our lives might be in jeopardy.

  We continue into the living room, where the years have been less than kind. Maybe it was once nicely decorated, but this side of the house is away from the sun, shrouding the room in cold, menacing shadow. The floral wallpaper is faded and stained, and here and there someone has been blasting it apart with a shotgun. A rocking chair squats in the corner beside an ancient upright piano, its guts ripped out, keys and wires hanging down to where the keybed used to be. On our left is a set of double French doors, and on the right, a fireplace. Though it’s no longer roaring, the ashes are still warm—probably the source of the smoke we smelled earlier.

  Charlie peers into a sort of sunroom off the living room at the front of the house. A single glance is enough to see that it’s completely empty, its windows covered with newspapers. He doubles back and follows me through the glass doors.

  We find ourselves standing in a small room, a sort of foyer. Our eyes adjust to the gloom and we can make out a staircase going up to the second floor, dividing this part of the house front from back. On the left is another opening to the dark hallway we saw earlier. I stick my head around the corner and see the kitchen entry, as well another door at the back of the stairwell.

  I suppress a shudder, imagining what’s behind it, then go back to where Charlie’s waiting.

  The front porch is on our right, and it’s clear now that, even if he’d tried, Charlie would never have gotten in. Most of the space has been filled with furniture, pushed so tight against the door it blocks the exit.

  “I don’t feel very welcome,” Charlie says in hushed tones as he steps up to a closed door beside the staircase. He listens for a moment then moves away. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t sound … right.”

  “What if it’s Gekas? At least check,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head at my insistence but lightly raps a knuckle on the wood.

  Something bangs against the door with a scurry of claws, then rushes up into the walls.

  Charlie leaps back.

  “I told you I didn’t want to try,” he says, shooting me a look that’s easy to interpret, even in the shadows.

  So we have two choices: take the stairs to the second floor, or follow the hallway back into the murk and see what’s behind the door at the end. Again, it seems like a simple choice—the afternoon sunlight streaking between the boarded windows casts at least a few shards of warm light. However, as I climb the first few steps, I hear the drone of flies, and that sickly smell of rot makes me queasy.

  Charlie looks down the hall to the kitchen, then back at me. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but what do you say we get the hell out of here and call for backup?”

  “What about Gekas? We’re already here—and she might not be able to wait.”

  He shakes his head and says something that throws me off guard. “I think we’re in over our heads. This whole place feels wrong. Most of the time we have some sort of odds in our favour, but we’re playing on his turf here; he’s got the advantage, and I don’t like it.”

  I’m not used to cautious Charlie. His confidence has helped me deal with most of what we’ve been through.

  If he’s nervous, I’m nervous.

  But if Gekas is here and we abandon her, I don’t know that I could live with myself. Especially after Mike.

  “Seriously, Shepherd. Let’s pull back and wait for the cavalry to arrive.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He gives a short, sharp nod. “Let the cops deal with this. What with that smell and the cage back in the city, there’s enough weirdness going on that they have enough cause to conduct a search.”

  There’s something about the way he says this that bugs me—like maybe the cops are already on their way.

  But he’s right and I know he’s right, and I’m about to agree when we hear the tap tap tap of metal against metal somewhere beneath us.

  chapter 121

  “Shit,” Charlie says.

  “Do you think it’s Gekas?” I whisper.

  He looks at me, cold. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

  He’s got a point. Either it’s someone who needs our help or something we don’t want to mess with; either way it could be dangerous.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Definitely sounds intentional,” I say.

  “So if we go find a cell signal—” Charlie’s doing the math in his head “—over ten miles back, that’s about twenty minutes’ drive time, plus another ten to hike back to the car first.”

  I follow it through. “Thirty to call for help and get someone to take us seriously, another hour or so for someone to get out here.”

  Tap tap tap.

  “I still say we go and get help,” he says. “We can even come back and keep an eye on the place afterwards, if you want. But I think it’s time we split. This could be a trap; something literally doesn’t smell right.”

  I trust Charlie’s instincts. “Fine. Let’s move.”

  Tap tap tap.

  We ignore the sound and leave the foyer, crossing through to the kitchen and back into the mudroom.

  My hand is on the doorknob when Charlie hisses, “Stop!”

  I glare at him. “What?”

  He points through the crack in the newspaper, and I see what he sees: a silver convertible, with no one inside.

  chapter 122

  We haven’t heard any doors bang shut, so Charlie and I scuttle back to the stairs before the driver comes in.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask, tightening my grip on the club. “Catch him off guard? Try and overpower him?”

  “The guy uses a gun. No t
hanks.”

  I consider our options. The upstairs windows are boarded up. We might be able to crack off some boards and climb out, but we’d have to do it both without him hearing us and without breaking our legs when we jump down. Then I remember the rotten wood of the basement window outside, and the narrow path made by the fox. If we’re lucky, maybe it goes all the way through—

  “There could be a way out downstairs,” I hiss.

  We race down the dark hall to the door at its end and descend into the blackness beyond. The stench of decay is now overwhelming, and I immediately realize that we’ve made a terrible mistake—but there’s no time to second guess ourselves.

  Charlie pulls out his phone and turns the flashlight on. He swings it around to reveal we’re in a long hallway with several padlocked doors on the right and one that’s open a crack on the far left.

  “Shepherd, which way out?” Charlie asks, and I try to orient myself in the house, doing my best to figure out where the broken wood might be.

  “Down the hall,” I say, hoping I’m right.

  We hustle to the end of the hall and slip through the open door, shutting it as quietly as we can.

  chapter 123

  Charlie swoops his light around.

  It’s small, with an opening to another room on the left. The space is filled with junk. Stacks upon stacks of newspapers, books, and boxes line the walls. A couch and two armchairs have been pushed to one side; beside them is a large pile of paint cans and thinner.

  Charlie flips open a crate full of files. “Someone’s a hoarder. Looks like old journals, birthday cards, anniversary cards—” he says.

  “Shh …,” I hiss.

  I climb on the couch and check the window, but it’s boarded up tight. This isn’t the one I’m looking for.

  “Keep going,” I say, urging him on.

  We rush into the next room, and the beam of Charlie’s phone jitters across the walls. On the left, several lengths of pipe run horizontally at different heights along one side serving as a sort of open-air closet for suits, dresses, pants— even someone’s wedding dress. On the right are shelves filled with blankets, towels, and sheets, and open cupboards full of children’s toys: cars, wooden blocks, construction sets, a row of books.