The question surprised me, and for some reason, I changed the subject when he asked.
I didn’t want to lie to him…but I also didn’t want to tell him.
Pops’ last words belonged to me.
We buried Pops on a cloudy autumn Thursday.
Lee and his wife, Annie, and their two girls flew down from New York for the service. I offered they could stay at the house with me, but they opted for the local Holiday Inn, as they had the handful of other times they had visited.
With the exception of old Mrs. Potts, Pops’ next door neighbor, the rest of the funeral attendees were made up of mostly strangers. What remained of Pops’ friends from church and the VA hospital and the VFW. They all shook my hand and clapped me on the back and said nice things in tired, whispery voices.
I held it together until the honor guard fired their rifles and folded the American flag that draped Pops’ casket and the bugler played Taps. I accepted the flag from a soldier not much younger than myself with tears streaming down my cheeks.
It was a nice service, and I was grateful to everyone who attended.
On the drive back to the house from the cemetery, I could almost hear Pops’ voice from the seat beside me: beautiful day like this is meant for fishing and not much else.
Lee and I said our goodbyes later that night in the Holiday Inn bar, neither of us talking very much about Pops or the past, choosing instead to discuss the upcoming baseball playoffs and his little girls and how his photography business was really taking off. He asked me what the book I was writing was about, but as usual I didn’t sense real interest, merely a polite gesture meant to extend the conversation.
We had been best friends growing up, all thru our school years and into college, even though we attended universities more than five hundred miles away. But sometime after Lee got married and moved to New York, we started to drift apart the way best friends and even brothers sometimes do.
I had married—and then divorced—my college sweetheart. Wrote and sold my first novel. Quit my job at the newspaper and became a full-time writer. Shortly after, I moved back to the old neighborhood, just a couple of blocks away from Pops and the house we grew up in.
The move made sense to me. I could write from anywhere. And I missed Pops. He was my family and this was my home.
I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I ended up at Pops’ house at midnight, banging around in the dark, looking for the damn map.
I’d laid in bed, running Lee’s visit through my head, searching for meaning in the things he had said and the things he hadn’t said. Was he still disappointed in me for returning to our little town and writing the kind of books I wrote? Did he think I had settled for this life?
And the loudest voice inside my head: when did I start caring so much about what my little brother thought?
Somewhere between thinking about what Lee had said at the funeral about Pops’ will and what he’d said at the hotel bar about buying a new Cadillac, I remembered Pops’ last words: “Find the map. Before they do.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was slipping my key into Pops’ front door and slipping inside like a thief in the night.
I left the lights off. I told myself I didn’t want old Mrs. Potts to see a light on in the house and come over to investigate. But I think it was more than that. I don’t think I was ready to see the silent remnants of Pops’ life. His battered old reading chair. His collection of autographed baseballs on the bookshelf. The family photos on the wall. His faded war memorabilia.
Besides, if there was a map to be found, I knew where I would find it.
I crept up the stairs and down the hallway to my old bedroom and pushed open the door. A sliver of moonlight peeked in through the window. The pair of single beds remained, as did the faded and chipped nightstand that sat between them. A lamp sat on the nightstand. And nothing else: no map.
I opened the single drawer. Empty.
Disappointed, I started to turn and leave when one final thought occurred to me. I picked up the lamp and looked underneath…
…and there it was.
I picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it—and discovered that it was actually two sheets of paper.
I walked over to the window and took a closer look.
The first sheet was a map. Even in faint moonbeam, I could see that it was drawn in the same detailed fashion as the maps of my childhood. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia racked my heart.
I unfolded the second sheet of paper and found a list of names.
Nine names.
I sat in my truck in the driveway and Googled the names on my phone.
They were all young women between the ages of 22 and 30.
And they had one other thing in common: they were all missing.
I parked my truck in Pops’ driveway at daybreak and climbed out with the map and a shovel. Pops had taught me how to dress for the land back when I was a kid, so despite an unseasonably warm September morning, I was wearing jeans and hiking boots, a flannel shirt and a baseball hat. I locked the truck and set off.
For the next ninety minutes it was like walking through a time machine and traveling two decades back in time to my childhood. I walked the same fields and paths and creek beds as I had as a fifteen-year-old dreamer.
Of course, nature had had its way with the land, yet somehow it was just how I remembered it. A sense of peace and calm settled over me as I walked deeper and deeper into the wilderness. All the years I had lived here after moving back and it had taken one of Pops’ treasure maps to get me out here again. Maybe that was the point of all this…Pops still teaching me, even after he was gone. The thought made me smile and my pace quickened.
I thought about the list of names as I walked, but those thoughts got me nowhere. Had Pops even meant to include the names with the map? Had he been somehow investigating the disappearances? Maybe playing amateur detective like a character from one of his old pulp novels? It was something I could definitely imagine him doing—scanning the daily newspaper for details, listening to the nightly news reports—especially in his later years after he’d retired from the mill.
After just a single misstep when I miscalculated the distance between two towering pines, I easily found where “X” marked the spot on Pops’ map. He had hidden his treasure at the base of an old weeping willow overlooking a lily pad-choked pond. It had taken me exactly ninety-seven minutes to find it. More than 20 years after my last treasure hunt, I still had it. I would have to remember to call Lee later in the morning and do a little bragging.
I pushed the log off to the side and stabbed at the dark earth with my shovel. Just as I expected, it was firm and unyielding. Pops hadn’t left the house in four months before his death, so unless he’d had help, he had planned this little adventure many months in advance.
The thought only added to my excitement and curiosity.
I started digging, stopping after just a few minutes to remove my shirt. A fish jumped in the pond. A fat squirrel showed up to watch my progress. A crow cursed at me from the treetops.
I was just about convinced that I was in the wrong spot after all when the shovel hit something that wasn’t dirt.
I dropped to my knees and used my hands to uncover what I had found. Once again, feeling time slip away, my dirt-crusted fingers racing faster and faster…
…until they pulled an old cigar box out of the deep hole.
The box was secured with a twist of rotting, black string. I scrambled to untie the knot, my fingers muddy now with perspiration. I could hear a strengthening breeze stirring the trees, and I realized I was holding my breath.
I tossed the string aside and opened the box.
Inside, I found a tangled mound of gold and silver jewelry. Bracelets. Earrings. Necklaces.
And a small stack of driver’s licenses rubber-banded together.
I undid the rubber band and flipped through the licenses.
And then I counted them.
There were nine.
It took a lot longer to make it back to Pops’ house. Almost three hours. Nothing looked familiar anymore. I made a lot of wrong turns.
My head hurt.
My heart hurt.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the nine women.
I couldn’t stop seeing their faces on those driver’s licenses.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about the second map I had found tucked inside that rubberband with their licenses.
Night Call
December 31
6:03 pm
The first thing I noticed when I pulled over to the curb was Frank Logan’s bald head shining in the outdoor Christmas lights. Even with all the commotion and camera flashes and all the people moving around, his head stuck out like the beacon from a lighthouse. He spotted me right away and made a big show of looking at his wristwatch. I grinned and showed him both my middle fingers.
Frank Logan was my partner. Had been for the past eight years; ever since I made detective. He was a good man. A first-rate cop.
He stood there in the doorway and watched me get out of my car and walk up the front sidewalk. I got close enough and he said, “Nice of you to show up.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Traffic was bad.”
“Yeah, I know. Only been here a couple minutes myself.”
“So what’s with the suit?” I asked. He was all decked out—a black, three-piece. It wasn’t very wrinkled, and he actually looked pretty good. His tie was bright red and covered with tiny white reindeer, and it wasn’t stained. Even his shoes looked shined. All this was new territory for Frank.
“Tonight was Susan’s dinner party. Over at the Hilton.”
“Oh, shit. She pissed you had to leave?”
“You know it.”
Right then I glanced over his shoulder at the front door. “Hey, is that what I think it is?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus.”
“This guy’s one sick son-of-a-bitch.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“Sliced her goddamn ears off—”
“And pinned ’em to the front door,” I said, shaking my head.
“Wait ’til you see the upstairs bedroom.”
“How come?”
“Because that’s where her hands are.”
“Her hands?”
“That’s right,” he said, nodding. “Rest of her’s in the kitchen.”
“Jesus.”
“Third one in three weeks, Ben…I think we might have some real trouble here.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“You eat dinner yet?”
“What?”
“I didn’t have time to eat at the party. You hungry?”
“A little,” I lied.
“How ’bout we finish up here and go grab a pizza?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Pepperoni and mushroom?”
“Sounds good to me.”
We went inside.
9:47 pm
The rain had changed over to snow about an hour ago. Almost an inch on the ground already. The guy on the radio was promising six-to-eight by morning with plenty of ice on the roadways. The morgue would be a popular place tomorrow.
The Christmas lights had been turned off. Yellow police tape lined the front yard and driveway, fluttered in the night breeze. It was a lonely sound, a lonely place now. The squad cars and news vans had left some time ago. Even the neighbors had disappeared—gone back inside to their parties, their television sets, their nice warm beds.
Inside the two-story brick colonial, every light in the house was burning bright. The cleanup crew was on the clock and earning overtime. Three single mothers from up north in the suburbs. Over the past year, I’d gotten to know them pretty well. Frieda, Sandra and Lorraine—all in their early forties. Hard-working and friendly women. I liked them very much. Friends since high school, they’d quit their jobs and formed their own company early last year after watching a television program about a similar business venture in Chicago. Ask any of the three and they’ll tell you: it’s ugly work, real ugly—some days nothing but blood, urine and human waste, and the smell’s enough to kill you—but it sure beats making minimum wage and having your ass grabbed every day by a bunch of smug lawyers. Sure, the hours may stink, but the pay more than makes up for the inconvenience. And it’s simple work, really. First thing: turn on all the lights. Especially at night. Then, if necessary, start upstairs and work your way down. Keep your mind focused on something else—anything else—and scrub everything as clean as possible. Spray it all down with disinfectant. And, last thing before you lock the front door, set up the air-fresheners. Typical job takes between two and six hours, depending on the mess and the number of victims. Longer if they have to call someone in to move furniture or pull up the carpet.
Tonight’s victim—Mandy Frymann, a thirty-seven year old middle school teacher, 5’2”, 125 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes—was already making her way downtown. Zippered tight inside a shiny black body bag. The thing was: this particular bag was designed for a male victim and it was too long to properly secure a 5’2” female, so the coroner’s assistant was forced to improvise. He folded the bottom of the bag up over her feet until it practically reached above her knees and then he weighted the extra flap in place with both of her severed hands, both of her ears, and her right foot—each sealed tight inside heavy duty plastic evidence bags. This was not proper transfer procedure, but the assistant didn’t much give a damn. He was supposed to be home by seven, and he was late for a party.
9:54 pm
“You got cheese in your mustache,” I said.
“Huh?”
I pointed to my own mouth. “In your mustache. Cheese.”
“Oh, thanks.”
He located the string of mozzarella and popped it into his mouth. Raised his eyebrows at me. I pretended to be disgusted.
We were sitting across from each other in a booth near the front window of Bountempo Brothers, Frank’s favorite pizzeria. He loved this place—with its clean red tablecloths and authentic Italian music on the sound system—always talked about buying a joint just like it when he retired. He wanted me to invest when the time came; that way we could stay partners, he said. Frank was full of crazy ideas.
“Something wrong with you tonight?” I asked, after a few minutes of silence. “You been kinda quiet.”
He shook his head. “Just tired I guess.”
“You know we’ll find this guy, Frank. You know how it is with the violent ones. He’ll get messy, make a mistake and we’ll—”
“I’m fine, I tell you.”
We stared at each other for a moment, both of us trying to look convincing.
I looked away first, watched a young couple cross the snow-covered street, holding hands. They turned the corner, and I looked back at Frank; he’d been watching them, too. There was something in his eyes I didn’t recognize.
“Come on, Frank. You don’t think I’d know if something was bothering you.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a pest. You know that. A goddamn pest.”
“That’s right,” I said, reaching across the table and poking him in the forearm. “I’m a pest and sometimes you’re worse than a goddamn woman. Now tell me the truth.”
He took a sip of his soda and shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell.”
I pointed at him. “You…are…a…liar.”
He pointed back. “And…you…are…a…asshole.”
I shoved the tip of a slice of pizza in my mouth and flicked him the bird.
We sat there in silence, watching the rest of the pizza get cold.
About a minute later, he spilled it, just like I knew he would.
He said it very quietly. “Susan wants a divorce. She told me tonight.”
“Jesus, Frank.”
“She’s serious, too. You shoulda heard her. She swears she’s not seeing anyone else. She’s not even thinking of anyone else. She just doesn’t love me anymore. Said
she doesn’t even know me anymore.”
“Ah, hell, I’m sorry.”
He nodded his head sadly. “Me too.”
“Maybe she’ll change her mind. Maybe she’s just pissed off, because of you missing the party and all.”
“I don’t think so, Ben. I really don’t think so.”
He locked his hands together, rested his chin on them, and stared out the window. He looked like he was praying, and maybe he was.
“So what’d you say to her?” I asked.
He kept looking out the window at the falling snow. “What could I say? I told her we would have to talk about it in the morning. That there was a lot we needed to talk about.”
“And?”
“She said the time for talking had come and gone. That it was time to move on. She said her mind was made up.”
“Jesus, Frank. She really said that?”
He looked at me and nodded. He was close to tears. “She really said that.”
“Damn, I’m sorry, Frank.”
“You already said that.”
I opened my mouth to say something else, and that’s when our pagers went off.
10:19 pm
“You believe in any of this millennium bullshit?”
“You obviously don’t,” I said.
We were heading north on 95 but moving slow because of the storm. The snow was coming down thicker now. Bigger flakes and wet. It was sticking to everything.
“How do you know I don’t believe?”
“You said millennium bullshit. If you think it’s bullshit, then you obviously don’t believe in it.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Jesus, Ben, sometimes you’re a pain in the ass.”
“What did you mean then?”
“Okay, we’re about to hit a new century. Not a new decade, a century. I realize that’s pretty damn significant. A big deal even. But now we’ve got nutcases running loose all over the damn place. Even more so than usual. And why? Just because of the damn calendar. Turn on the television and what do you see? Stories about psycho cult members offing themselves so that they can be transported to another planet. Little kids walking into schools with machine guns in their book bags and blowing their friends away. Murderers and rapists all over the fucking place. Serial killings on the rise. And why? Because a voice told them to do it, because the end of the world is coming, because Judgment Day is upon us all. Jesus Christ, what a bunch of shit.”
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