“Maybe when she’s better—”
“Not because she’s sick, but because she hasn’t protected and nurtured him! He’s little more than an animal. Not even the most basic instruction!”
“Inbreeding,” Hurley said bluntly. “Not a whole lot of women to choose from up there. I bet her father or uncle is the father. Sometimes the children turn out retarded, and the family keeps them hidden at home.” He stopped by his cruiser. Laid a hand on Aunt Penny’s arm. “Let me do my job, Penny. Go home. I’ll take Rick back and make sure these kids are all right.”
As we drove along the main highway toward my place, I could feel my heart pounding. I was angry at what he’d said but afraid to stand up to him.
Finally, I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Robin is not retarded!” I burst out. “He’s just never been to school. He knows a whole lot about tending a farm, and he’s even learning to read.”
“If he’s never been to school, that’s even worse,” Hurley said. With a smooth hand he steered the cruiser off the main highway. “Your aunt is right. Children’s Services has to be called in.”
Dust rose around us from my backcountry road. Far ahead, I could see my tin roof glinting in the sun. I knew I didn’t have much time left to convince him. “He’s scared enough already. There are so many new things. He knows me. He knows the farm. If you drag in Children’s Services…”
He looked over at me. Hurley had been a rookie cop the first time I was taken into care. He’d known my mother all her life. They’d been in high school together. He had tried to help her, but she’d been too lost in her own world. I think he always felt guilty about that. He’s grown tougher over the years, but he still has kind of a soft spot for me. “Let’s see what we’ve got first, okay?” he said.
I spotted the first hint of trouble as soon as we turned in the gate. The ambulance hadn’t arrived yet, but Chevy was missing from her post on the front porch. I said nothing, but my heart jumped into my throat. Hurley parked by my truck and climbed out. He hitched his gun belt over his gut and headed for the door. I trailed, trying to plan my next move. The house was very quiet. Too quiet.
Without a word, Hurley headed upstairs. He aimed straight for my mother’s bedroom, like he knew exactly where it was. I had to run to keep up with him. In the doorway, he stopped so fast that I bumped into him.
“Fuck,” he muttered. I peered over his shoulder. Saw the bedding strewn on the floor, the bandages and pills all gone from the dresser. The bed empty.
Hurley spun on his heel and rushed back downstairs. His face was dark red. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was already on his radio to dispatch. “Now we’ve got trouble,” he said. “They’re missing.”
I stood there in silence. Sick with fear. We had more trouble than Hurley knew. Because my mother’s shotgun was not where I’d put it the night before.
Ten
By the time Sergeant Hurley left my farm, a full-scale cop alert had gone out. Hurley had taken the kids’ dishes for fingerprinting and some bedding for hair samples. Maybe even DNA if it came to that. “The kids lied and ran away,” Hurley said. “Even without the bullet hole, that’s suspicious. We need to find out who they are.”
I didn’t dare tell him about the shotgun.
I knew the cops would question all my neighbors. And check cars up and down the highway. My heart was in my throat. There was no telling what Robin would do if he was cornered. I was the only person he trusted at all, and that wasn’t saying much. But if I could find him first, there was a small chance I could stop a disaster.
When I was sure there were no cops around, I went into the woods to the hideouts. I hoped Chevy was with them, as she would bark if I got close. No luck. The cave and the shack down by the stream were both empty. It looked like the kids had disappeared.
It was early afternoon when I got back home. Still no Chevy. That’s when I noticed that the goat had been milked and the eggs collected. Some soup was missing from the fridge. Had Robin done all of this while I was at the police station that morning, or had he sneaked back just now, while I was out looking for him?
Even though I was worried, I felt some comfort. The kids might not be far away, and at least they had some food with them.
I got in my truck and headed to my neighbor’s farm about a mile and half away. No, he hadn’t seen anyone, he told me. He hadn’t noticed anything stolen either. A cop had just been by, asking him the same questions.
The next neighbor had almost the same story. Buddy Bourke is too old to do any farming anymore. So he spends his days sitting on his front porch, watching the cars go by. Not much gets by him, but he hadn’t seen the kids.
“My hatchet went missing a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “But more than likely I just left it somewhere out in the bush.”
His wife appeared in the doorway behind him. She is as bent and wrinkled as an old cornstalk. “Left your head out there too,” she said. “But while you’re here, Rick, that old snowmobile by the barn is yours for the taking if you can get it into your truck.”
I could still hear her laughing as I drove off toward the next farm. Everyone knows I have half a dozen snowmobiles in my sheds already. And fourteen lawn mowers, plus washing machines, old fridges and more junk than I can count. I should probably say no more often.
The sun was almost down by the time I finally drove back through the village. I’d had no luck finding the kids. Aunt Penny was closing up. Tractors were returning to their barns. The parking lot of the Lion’s Head was filling up. I’m not really big on beer and company, and I’d already had more conversation that day than I usually have in a week. But if anyone had heard any rumors, it would be the regulars at the Lion’s Head.
The tables were full, and a hockey game was on over the bar. I ordered a half-pint and studied the guys at the nearest table. By themselves, they aren’t too bad. I’ve even done work for some of them. Fixing their snowmobiles, repairing their decks and stuff. But beer and hockey make them stupid. It didn’t take long for the stupidest one, Desroches, to yell at me.
“Hey, Tool! I hear you had a couple of half-wit visitors. Kids from up north?”
I pasted on a smile and joined them. It was going to be tough going against these guys. They already had a table full of empty beer bottles. But I did it for Robin. “They’ve run off,” I said. “The cops are looking for them. The girl’s twenty-two, the boy ten. Any of you see them?”
“Why? They didn’t pay their bill?”
“The girl needs medical attention. She’s been shot.”
Desroches grinned. He was on a roll. “It’s called a gun, Tool. You don’t go pointing it at people.”
“She says a hunter did it.”
That sobered them up a bit. Most of them are hunters, not always legally. “They’re not from around here,” I said. “They talk with accents.”
Jack Ripley leaned forward. Jack is smarter than the others, and he was not as drunk. I had his interest. “French?”
I shook my head. An idea popped into my head as I looked at the TV. “More like a Russian hockey player.”
“But with teeth, I hope,” Jack said.
Laughter all around. Desroches winked. “Pretty girl?”
I shrugged. I never was any good at girl bragging, and all the guys know it.
“You’d notice her,” I said. “She’s got nice blue eyes.”
“Eyes. Oooh.”
The talk got even worse after that, so I drained my half-pint and got up. I was halfway out to my truck when the bar door opened and Jack Ripley came out. Jack has a big dairy farm on the other side of the county, and he’s too busy for serious drinking. He usually just comes for the company and the hockey game.
“Blue eyes?” he said.
I nodded. “Amazing blue eyes. Her brother has them too.”
He squinted into the darkness. “I think I might know her.”
My heart did a cartwheel. “Who is she?”
“You know our
deer-hunt camp up in Ossington County? The one me and my brothers go to every fall?”
I know Ossington County. It’s in the area Sergeant Hurley talked about—a rugged backcountry of forests and lakes about thirty miles north. Full of fish and game, but the people are dirt poor. Jack usually brings me a venison roast after the hunt. I’m not a fan of killing wild animals, but I can never say no to the venison roast either.
“I could be wrong,” Jack said, “but she sounds like the camp cook we had the last couple of years. Her name was Donnie. She was skittish as a young colt, hardly spoke a word, hardly even looked you in the eye. But she did have an accent and really blue eyes. And we heard she was the daughter of a local hermit up there.”
“Who?”
Ripley shrugged. “Never knew his name. We made the arrangement through the local store. Everyone just called him the Rooskie.”
Rooskie! Russian. My hopes soared. “Do you know anything else? Where he lives?”
“Sort of. I drove her partway home once. She wouldn’t let me take her all the way. But if you’ve got a map, I can show you the road.”
Eleven
No Trespassing, the sign said in huge black letters. A branch scratched the side of my truck as I dodged a boulder in the road. I wouldn’t actually have called it a road. More like an ATV track through deep forest. It seemed to go on forever. Farther up, another handmade sign. Keep Out!
I hoped the Russian didn’t have a gun.
I’d left my farm bright and early in the morning, but the drive up to Ossington County had taken nearly two hours. The last nine miles had been nothing but mud and potholes, and now this overgrown track. Soon I came to a six-foot steel gate, chained shut with a heavy padlock. But the lock hung open, so I got out to unwind the chain and push back the gate. A gleam of metal poking through the dry leaves caught my eye. I leaned over for a closer look. It was a bear trap, jaws open, waiting for an intruder. There was nothing humane about that trap. Its huge teeth were razor sharp. I froze in place. Peered around. More traps were buried in the road around the gate. I inched around them and watched every step as I tugged open the gate.
Finally, I drove through, expecting gunfire or attack dogs. Nothing but silent trees. Up ahead the forest opened into a wide clearing. On one side, two goats watched me curiously from a field of dried-out hay. Across the road was a vegetable garden, protected by strips of cloth that flapped in the wind. Pumpkins lay rotting on the ground, and dead tomato plants clung to the stakes.
The place made mine look like paradise. A jumble of buildings had been hammered together from refuse. Barn, chicken coop, a couple of sheds and an outhouse. Cats and chickens roamed in the dirt, and a skinny cow stared at me through sickly eyes.
At the back of the clearing stood a small log cabin with a rocking chair on its porch. The house Robin had drawn in the notebook. I was at the right place! I stopped the truck and climbed out, keeping my head down. Expecting bullets. The stink hit me right away. Rotting manure, unwashed barns, neglected animals. And something else.
As I looked closer, a chill ran down my spine. I had stopped only six inches from sharp spikes sticking out of the road. Ready to shred my tires. All the buildings, including the outhouse, had huge padlocks or chains on them. Who did this guy think would steal from him? And what?
The goats trotted over to me right away, and even the cats rubbed my legs. A water pump sat in the middle of the yard, but there was no water in the trough and no feed in the yard. No sign that anyone was taking care of the place.
I pumped some water into the trough. The animals crowded around and drank like they hadn’t had water in days. I crossed the yard to the small barn, afraid of what I’d find. Animals dead or starving in their stalls? A thin wire had been strung across the doorway. I jerked back just before I strangled myself. What was it for? I wondered. To sound an alarm? Or, worse, to trigger a gun?
I ducked under it and went inside. The barn looked empty. I checked each stall. To my relief, they were all empty and neatly swept. Except the last one, where I found a bowl, cup, spoon and small bedroll tucked in the corner.
Just the way Robin kept his bed at my place.
I retraced my steps, ducked under the wire and headed to the main house. The windows were barred, the curtains drawn. I could see no signs of movement. Even so, I approached cautiously. Watched where I put my feet. Paused at each creak as I climbed the steps. There was another trip wire over the front door. Another heavy padlock. But this padlock was smashed, and the door was wide open. Beyond it, the curtained room was dark. I called out. No answer. I knocked. Still nothing.
I put my hand on the door and gave a gentle shove. Jumped back in case a shotgun was rigged to it. Nothing. Finally, I screwed up my courage and stepped inside.
Twelve
The house was one big room. It had an old black wood-burning cookstove, a table, and three chairs covered with handmade quilts. The walls were rough logs, with straw and wood fiber shoved into the chinks to keep the wind out. The pine floor planks were dark with stains. More quilts hung on the walls, and the bright colors livened up the room. It felt simple and homey.
On the back wall, a curtain led to a small nook. I peeked in. A bed sat in the corner, neatly made with another quilt. Beside it, a man’s clothing hung on pegs. A big man, from the size of the overalls. A smaller shirt and trousers lay folded on a shelf under the window. A chamber pot sat on the floor under a washstand and pitcher. Two toothbrushes.
So Marian and the Russian slept together in here. Robin slept in the barn. I shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. The place didn’t feel so homey anymore. I turned back into the main room. That’s when I saw the guns in the corner. Rifles and shotguns and pistols. At least a dozen of them were stored in a glass case, which was smashed open. Broken glass shone on the neatly swept floor. A box of .308 ammunition was ripped open, spilling cartridges onto the floor.
The .308 is a big-game rifle. Capable of bringing down a deer or a moose. Or a human. As my eyes got used to the dim light, I saw what I’d missed earlier. The stains on the floor were blood. Pooled by the bedroom door and streaked across the floor. Drag marks led out the door.
I slammed out of the house, my heart pounding. Leaned against the wall to catch my breath. As I sucked air into my lungs, I realized what the stink was.
Death.
The drag marks headed down the steps and around the side of the house. Someone had tried to scuff them out, but the gouges were deep. I stared at them for a long time. Some heavy object had dug two lines into the ground. I tried to think. The blood was dried. Marian and Robin had been on my land for almost a month. Whatever bad thing had happened here, it was not recent.
I should have called the police. But there was no phone. Not even electricity. This guy lived not only off the grid, but in another century. I should have jumped in my truck and got the hell out. Not stopped until I reached home. Or the nearest town.
I should at least have grabbed a gun.
But I followed the drag marks. Around the back of the house and into the woods behind. Up the hill. Tracking the deep gouges through fallen leaves. The smell grew so bad that I covered my nose. Took shallow breaths through my mouth. Almost stepped on a chunk of bone covered with flies. Up ahead, crows squabbled over something, black wings flapping. As I came closer, they took to the air in an angry whoosh. Leaving behind their prize.
What was left of a body, half buried under leaves. Arms missing, flesh stripped, flies buzzing in and out. Big boots were the only clue that it had once been a man.
Thirteen
It was well past dark by the time I finally got back home. The Ossington County police had lots of questions but were not big on answers. When I showed up at the local detachment, babbling about murder, they didn’t believe a word of my story. They thought I’d gone to the place to rob it. Or establish a grow-op. Or maybe I’d even killed the guy. They held me for hours, fingerprinted and photographed me. Just routine, they said, because
I’d been at the scene. I was too freaked out for a snappy comeback. My tongue was in so many knots I could hardly get a word out.
Once I gave them Hurley’s name, things got better. But they wanted to know all about Marian and Robin, and how I had learned about the Russian. My thoughts were whirling. Where was the Russian? Who was the dead man? The rifle case had been broken into. Robin had blood all over his clothes, and Marian had been shot. She and Robin had stolen my shotgun. No matter how I tried to fit these pieces together, I didn’t like the picture. So I kept my answers short and let the cops do their own thinking. They weren’t too happy about that. They finally let me go, but I figured my poor farm would be swarming with them by the time I got home.
I was relieved to see my house in darkness, with not a single cop car out front, when I drove up the lane. There was still no sign of Marian and Robin, but the animals had been tended to. Chevy was back home, fed and thrilled to see me.
I was especially happy to find a bag of carrots and some cheese missing from my fridge. I fell into bed, too tired to even undress. I was freaked and worried and relieved all at once. Whatever trouble the kids were in, they were staying near enough for me to help.
The next day I was on my third coffee when I spotted a cop car coming up my lane. I swore aloud. But when Jessica Swan climbed out, I tingled in spite of myself. Her blond hair shone in the morning sun as she scanned my fields. Luckily, neither kid was in sight. I put on my jacket and went outside.
The Night Thief Page 4