by P. L. Gaus
Niell climbed back over the seawall and stepped around to the trailer, which he found to be locked. He thought about forcing the door and then decided against it. Instead, he searched outside.
The trailer was old, aluminum sided, and had small awnings hung over smaller windows. A short TV antenna was strapped haphazardly to one end. The aluminum siding, dented and stained heavily with tree sap and bark dust, was done in a light green-and-white style that had been popular in the fifties. The tongue of the trailer rested on a leaning pile of concrete blocks, and the rubber tires were blocked off the ground by rusted iron pyramid braces that carried the weight of the axles. The corners of the trailer were also braced with concrete blocks that long ago had settled into the sand. A few ill-tended apple trees in back had dropped more than one season of dirty branches, fruit, and blossoms on an unkempt yard. Two fishing poles stood against the back of the trailer, lines tangled. He checked each of the windows. None of them permitted him a view inside.
He bent over and studied the storage space under the trailer. A rusty barbecue grill and a scattering of broken boat parts had been stuffed there long ago. Nothing recently. Back at his truck, he reached in for a camera on the front seat, snapped several pictures of the trailer, climbed over the broken slabs of the seawall, and stood on the boat dock to take several more pictures of the area. The bay opened to the west where clouds had started to gather in profusion. Boat traffic coming in off the lake congested the channel around the small rocky island guarding the entrance to the bay.
Back at the truck, Niell dropped the camera onto the front seat, stepped around intending to make another inspection of the trailer, and was greeted by a middle-aged woman in overalls, who offered her hand and said, “Officer, I’m Melanie Brikker. My husband and I run this place. Landlords.”
Niell shook her hand and said, “Deputy Ricky Niell.”
“I’m not really supposed to let anyone other than tenants on the docks,” Melanie said, “but it’s OK.”
“Sorry,” Niell said. “I’m interested in the man who lives in the trailer.”
“Right,” Melanie said, and gave a little laugh. “That’s Jon Mills. He’s a good friend of ours. Look, Deputy. If you want a better look at those docks, it’s OK, really.”
Niell indicated that he would and they stepped over the seawall and walked out to the end of the docks. Niell studied the line of boats at the docks.
“Jon’s boat isn’t there, if you’re looking for it,” Melanie volunteered. “He took it over to the marina at West Harbor for repairs.”
Niell suppressed the reflex to respond and asked instead, “How long ago was that?”
“Dunno. Must have been more than a week ago. I wondered what happened,” Melanie added. “We haven’t seen his boat, and he’s been gone a spell, too. He’s paid up on his rent, though.”
Niell decided to try for information he already knew. “Do you have any idea where he went?”
“He used to drink a lot,” Melanie said. “With my husband most of the time. But lately, we haven’t seen him, and from what Bobby tells me, he wasn’t too keen on drinking the last few weeks, anyways.”
“Bobby?”
“My husband,” Melanie said. “Jonah was his drinking buddy. But like I said, we haven’t seen him for a spell. Maybe he went somewhere to dry out.”
“It’s possible,” Niell remarked.
“Nothing would suit me finer,” Mel said. “Those two drink too much as it is.”
Niell reached into his uniform shirt pocket, took out one of his cards, and gave it to her. “If you get any word, please call.”
Melanie Brikker studied the card and said, “Holmes County?”
“It’s a ways south of here,” Niell explained.
“Whatever you need, Deputy. Just take your time looking around. If he shows up, I’ll call.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Brikker.”
“Melanie,” she corrected.
“Melanie,” Niell said. “Again, thanks.”
At the Big Bopper, Ricky scanned the lot again for the Marblehead cruiser. He checked in at the Coast Guard Station where Seaman Munson, alone at the counter for the moment, said that the Marblehead Police had not made an appearance. Out again on Highway 163, he stopped at the Cheesehaven Barn, advertising meat, wine, donuts, bread, and candy. He stood in line with teenagers in swim suits and baggy sweatshirts, bought an assortment of crackers, cheese, and fruit juice, and then drove back east through the small town of Marblehead, with its inns, art galleries, restaurants, marinas, curio shops, and real estate agents. Still no police cruiser at the station.
Near the end of the peninsula, he noticed a neat brown and white sign for the Marblehead Lighthouse. On impulse, he followed the sign, turning just beyond the St. Mary Byzantine Catholic Church that advertised Bingo on Monday nights. He drove along a narrow road to the water, where a caretaker’s two-story white frame house stood beside the lighthouse. The caretaker’s house was old, with a plaque marking it as historic. Its siding boards drooped in the middle of their long horizontal runs. The roof was mostly of gray shingles, but showed the original red in damaged patches.
The lighthouse was a white stucco circular tower painted red on top. Its parapet was surrounded by an iron railing, also red. The historical marker declared that the lighthouse had been erected in 1822, and that it occupied the easternmost point on the peninsula. Today it guarded gray slate rocks slippery with green moss, and large gray boulders cut from nearby quarries. Trees grew among the boulders. Beyond the trees, wind and waves came ashore on an expanse of flat stone.
Niell took out his snack and sat at a picnic table under the trees, watching an assortment of boats taking shelter from the seas in a small cove beside the Byzantine Church. Beyond the point where the lighthouse stood, he surveyed a high chop on open waters.
Where to next? As ordered, phone Robertson and try to sound competent. As before, he’d have nothing to report.
Well, almost nothing. He had found the trailer. At least he had that much. “Leave nothing out,” he imagined the sheriff’s insistent voice on the phone.
Then he’d meet up with Branden back at the marina, find Officer Lively, and work through official channels to open the trailer. Would Robertson say he should have forced the door? Probably. Another good reason not to make that call just yet, Niell thought.
But there was something else, he realized slowly. Something he had missed. Something that nagged at him subtlely. Robertson would insist on knowing exactly what that was. And Niell knew, now, that he wouldn’t be able to tell him. Wouldn’t be able to explain what it was that bothered him.
He stopped eating and stared unhappily at the water. It was something that had not seemed right at the time. Perhaps something at the police station that wasn’t open, or the bikers at the Coast Guard Station, or the restaurant, or the trailer, or the private dock beyond the concrete sea wall.
Drive past the trailer once more, Niell thought. Look for the Marblehead cruiser. Run the scanner on your radio and listen to law enforcement in the area. Maybe check in with the Coast Guard again.
And then what? He screwed the lid back on a half-finished bottle of orange juice. Big mistake to call in now, he told himself. Let Robertson wait. Call when you’re ready.
At least find the Marblehead policeman. Try his cottage at Lakeside. Or his boat on East Harbor. Call the mayor’s secretary, as the sign on the one-room police station had instructed. Last, check with the Port Clinton police, in case Marblehead’s single cop didn’t turn up. And then what?
That’s the trouble, Niell told himself, tossing the remains of his lunch into the bed of his truck. You still can’t pin what’s got you rattled. He sat in his truck, looking toward the water, making a list in his mind of Robertson’s inevitable questions.
A priest from the Byzantine Church stepped out in full vestments and walked down to the shore to watch the boats in the cove, a steady breeze tearing at his robe. For the first time, Ricky noticed t
he four ornate Byzantine crosses on top of the church. The crosses consisted of an upright post and three crosspieces. The top crossbar short, the second longer, and the third set low and at an angle. The four crosses sailed the darkening skies amid several onion-domed Byzantine turrets. About as far as you can get from Amish country, he mused.
An image of Jonah Miller in the ditch crossed his mind. Then the image of Branden in Amish clothes, confronting the bishop in the far hayfields near the stream.
He thought of Jeremiah, and remembered Robertson warning that they’d have, at most, a half-day lead-off on the FBI. A torrent of pessimism washed through him. Jeremiah wouldn’t be found. At least not here. Probably not alive.
Then what bothered him so? Something he bumped against. Saw vaguely then, but discounted. Consequently lost it. He imagined Robertson haranguing him about the details, and groaned. What was it?
“Think, Niell!” he muttered. His fingers tightened on the wheel, and his elbows locked in tension. He started the engine, revved it, and rolled the truck out toward Highway 163, convinced there was something he had overlooked. Something he needed to understand. They were not wasting their time here. He knew that now.
OUT on 163, Ricky Niell listened to his scanner, reviewing the places he had been that morning—the motel, the marina, the Marblehead Police, the Coast Guard Station with its parade of bikers next door at the ferry landing, the Big Bopper parking lot, the cottages in the orchard, the trailer, the seawall leading to the private boat dock, the Cheesehaven Barn, the lane just beyond the Byzantine Church, the red-and-white lighthouse with its gray and black rocky shore with a picnic table under the trees, and a Byzantine priest standing in a driving, onshore wind at the rocky edge of a protected cove.
Niell thought of calling Robertson and immediately decided against it, convinced more than before that he had missed something. Out on a straight length of 163, he laid on the horn and swung out into the passing lane, alarmed that somewhere today he had made a terrible mistake.
28
Friday, June 26
10:30 A.M.
THE storm arose quickly over the shallow waters of Lake Erie, and boaters familiar with the lake’s inconstant nature sought cover through the channel into West Harbor, Branden among them. On the end of the first dock at the marina, Niell waved Branden over and jumped aboard without waiting for Branden to tie up. He gave a brief explanation of his concerns, and took the wheel from Branden.
A cold northerly had settled into a confident pattern, skimming across from Canada. Whitecaps snapped on all sides.
“I just want a look at that dock from the water,” Niell shouted over the rising wind and the engine. Beyond the break wall, the boat slammed into three-foot waves and threw up heavy spray.
Branden gripped the rail, tried to keep his footing, and settled for a seat on the edge of the boat cushions. Niell pushed the Bayliner eastward toward the vicinity of Lakeside, where the private dock stood on the other side of the seawall from Jonah Miller’s trailer.
Branden squinted forward, trying to judge the distance, alarmed by the suddenness of the storm. He shouted over at Niell, “You called Robertson?”
“Not yet,” Niell shouted, wrestling fiercely with the wheel. He turned his cap around so the bill wouldn’t catch the wind.
Near the entrance to East Harbor, Niell brought the Bayliner close in to shore and skirted the point. He came around into the entrance past the small island, dropped into the calmer harbor, and turned immediately to port, into the easternmost cove. Twenty feet out, he reversed throttle, shut down, and stood off from the dock.
Three boats were tied there, bobbing in the water, and two more docked while they watched. An elderly couple clambered out of one boat, a family with children out of the other, all taking note of the storm.
“Looks pretty normal here to me,” Branden said and eyed open waters nervously.
“I’d hoped something would jar a memory,” Niell said, disappointed.
“It’s a rental trailer?” Branden asked.
Niell braced himself behind the wheel, studying the dock, and then turned his cap around forward and nervously rocked it into position tightly on his head. “Right. A junker trailer. At the end of a run of several cottages in an old orchard.”
“And Jonah rented the trailer?” Branden asked. “You double-checked that?”
Niell nodded yes. “Rented it from the Brikkers,” Niell said, “Melanie and her husband Bobby.” Then Niell frowned heavily, took a quick glance at the boat traffic in the harbor, and started the engines. To Branden he said, “She never mentioned Jeremiah.”
“That’s not what you’d expect, Ricky,” Branden said, immediately concerned.
“I know,” Niell said and pushed in behind the wheel.
In the waters outside East Harbor, whitecaps danced on a four-foot chop. Cold spray lashed fiercely over the windshield. Niell pushed the boat harder into the coming storm, bracing himself with one forearm against the wheel and with the other against the cabin wall. Water poured into the boat and drained out aft whenever a swell lifted the bow and then the stern. Niell pounded the Bayliner across the swells, heading back to the channel into West Harbor. He concentrated his thoughts on Melanie Brikker in front of Jonah’s trailer. His boots proved incapable of holding the deck.
His cap caught the wind and sailed away. He grabbed for it by reflex, but was forced immediately, by the next hammering wave, to brace himself again with both hands. He clung to the wheel and rode the throttle, forcing his way through the storm, driving his mind to comprehend. At length he maneuvered the boat into the long, dangerous channel between the break walls at West Harbor.
Once inside the channel, Niell eased back on the throttle, and the boat settled low and rode its own wake forward into quieter waters. In a driving rain, only the Sohio sign at the docks was visible to guide him to the marina.
Branden let go his grip on the rails and shouted against the wind, “What else, Ricky? She didn’t mention Jeremiah, but what else?”
Niell flashed a helpless expression.
“Describe her for me. What did she look like?” Branden asked in the rain.
Niell described her.
“Tell me what the two of you did.”
Niell told him.
“What, precisely, did she say?”
Niell gave it back to him word for word, and Branden’s face blanched, as he realized what it meant.
29
Friday, June 26
12 noon
NIELL shot down the Catawba Peninsula, under lights and siren, at fifty plus miles per hour.
As he drove, he reached to the seat for his pistol, magazines, and shoulder harness.
“Steer,” he shouted on a straightway and gave Branden the wheel.
Niell ducked into the shoulder rig, pulled it into place, and grabbed the wheel.
Then he looked over at Branden and said, “Robertson says you handle guns.”
“Right,” Branden said.
Niell drew his revolver, a stainless steel Smith and Wesson model 66, handed it sideways to Branden, and accelerated.
At the intersection with 163, Niell ignored the stop sign, took the corner fishtailing, skidded sideways through the gravel on two wheels, and tore east into the downpour.
Branden pushed the cylinder release button on the .357 magnum, swung the cylinder open, ejected six live rounds into his lap, and closed the cylinder. He then tried the trigger against pressure on the hammer from his thumb, both single and double action, gave Niell an approving look, and reloaded.
Niell smiled halfheartedly, slipped two speed loaders off his belt, handed them to Branden, and said, “The sights are set low. Six o’clock on a 9 bull at 25 yards.”
Branden slipped the speed loaders onto the right side of his belt, rebuckled, gripped the .357 authoritatively in his right palm, and glared into the pounding storm.
The windshield wipers snapped left and right, throwing off water. In the hard afternoo
n storm, there was little more than the light of dusk.
Niell keyed his mike, punched up the Intercity Channel, and broadcast using the Buckeye Deputy Sheriff’s Codes.
“This is Deputy Sheriff Ricky Niell. Code 44, eastbound on 163, kidnapping at the Orchard Grove Cottages.”
Then a similar message using the 10-codes. “This is Deputy Sheriff Ricky Niell. Eastbound on 163, Code 20 on a 207. Code 3 and 10-54 at the Orchard Grove Cottages. Kidnapped child, Jeremiah Miller, age ten.”
He came up to a slow-moving camper, swung around abruptly, punched up the Law Enforcement Emergency Radio Network, and broadcast again in the 10-codes.
At North Shore Boulevard, Niell overshot, slammed to a stop, backed, bounced the 4x4 left over the curb stones, and accelerated with a skid onto the blacktop.
“Watch for the Orchard Grove Cottages,” he said and threw the switch, cutting the siren.
Almost immediately, he came upon the two-track lane to Jonah Miller’s trailer, swung hard left, and slid the truck sideways into the orchard toward the trailer.
Then he broadcast his position on both the Intercity channel and LEERN.
Without precautions for silence, he jerked to a stop beside the trailer. The nose end of the truck bounced abruptly against the jumbled concrete seawall.
Niell bolted out, leaving the door ajar, and drew his .45 automatic. Branden followed with Niell’s .357.
Niell pulled a large crowbar out of the truck bed, ran up to the trailer, popped the trailer’s door open with a vicious thrust, tossed the crowbar into the sand, and scaled the two steps, pistol in his right hand leading his eyes into the trailer.