She smiled at me. “Any more where that came from, Rick?” she asked, nodding at my coffee. She followed me inside. While I poured her a cup, she sneaked a glance down the hall. Around the kitchen. She smiled when she saw all the sticky labels, and I felt my cheeks flush. To cut her off, I led the way back outside, even though it was freezing out there. I prayed the kids would have the sense to stay out of sight with her cruiser parked in plain view.
We sat on the front steps in the sun. She wrapped her hands around the warm coffee cup and took a sip. Her arm brushed mine.
“Any sign of the two missing kids?” she asked.
“No,” I said. I figured I’d leave it at that.
She didn’t push it. “Things are looking bad, Rick. The coroner estimates the victim’s been dead more than a month. Shot in the back. The investigating officers found a .308 Winchester in the barn that was recently fired. We won’t know until the postmortem if it’s the murder weapon. Or even if they can find the bullet. They brought in a forensics team from headquarters, and they’ve lifted a usable print from the rifle. Matched it to the cup and bowl in the barn.”
All the air went out of my lungs. All the joy from the air. I couldn’t talk. She looked at me sideways.
“They also found a bedroll in the barn. Didn’t you say Robin preferred to sleep in your barn?”
Still I said nothing. She sipped her coffee. Poked at the dirt with her toe. Her voice grew soft. “There’s a nationwide warrant out for their apprehension, Rick. Went out this morning. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Poor kids,” I managed.
“Yeah. It will take a while to put all the pieces together. To figure out what happened there. To the dead man, and to the kids.”
“Do they know who it is?”
“The body itself ?” She shook her head. “They’ll have to go by dental records. Or DNA. After weeks in the bush, there’s not much left of him.”
“But the man who lived there? Do they know who he is?”
“No name yet. The cops are interviewing people in the area, but no one seems to know his real name. Just the nickname Rooskie, which they gave him because of his accent. We’ll be trying to trace him through his fingerprints at the scene.”
I finally felt on safer ground. “But what about land registry? Taxes?”
“He’s a squatter. That back woodlot belongs to an old guy who’s been in a nursing home for years. Completely gaga, and his son lives out west. No one’s been on the property in years.”
“But the neighbors knew he and the kids were there.”
“They figured he was renting. No one asked any questions. You know how it is, Rick. Live and let live, especially up there. No one’s going to bring in the authorities. The word was that he moved onto the place about ten years ago and kept to himself. He did tell one neighbor that his wife had died, leaving him with the two children to support. He was a back-to-the-land type, just wanted to be left alone.”
I thought about Children’s Services swooping down on my mother at every hint of trouble. “But what about school? Doctors?”
“He told people he was homeschooling them. He didn’t trust authorities and was afraid of being investigated. Afraid his kids would be taken away. I think people up there can relate to that.”
So could I. Still, I could feel my face growing hot with anger. “But he didn’t even provide the basics. Robin wasn’t even taught to read. He slept in a barn, fed like a dog!”
“But no one knew that. The few times people saw the family in the nearby town, there were no signs of trouble. They were poor, but the kids were clean. They didn’t appear mistreated or unhappy. In fact, they all seemed to genuinely love each other.”
“That doesn’t make any sense! He was abusing her. And she says Robin is her son.”
“Incest…” Jessica paused. She seemed to be trying to pick her words. “In some of these families, it seems natural. The girl might not have known any different. I’m not saying it’s right. Just that to some abused kids it feels like a normal part of love.”
“Then…” I was feeling stubborn. Still fighting the facts. “If they were happy together, there’s no reason for the kids to shoot him.”
“If the body is his. We don’t know that yet.” She paused again. “There is one more thing. There was a stranger, an American, reported in the vicinity a few weeks ago. He showed up in the village asking questions about a young woman with pale blue eyes living with a foreign man.”
Fourteen
It was my day for visitors. People don’t drive all the way out to my farm often, but suddenly there were two in one day. I was in the barn, working on an alarm system. I needed to keep my hands busy and my thoughts off those kids. The crazy Russian’s trip wires and traps had given me an idea.
Aunt Penny’s truck has needed a valve job for months, so I knew it was her coming up the lane. I watched as she climbed out and squinted all around, like she was looking for something. Most likely the kids.
“They’re not here,” I called, coming out of the barn.
She zipped her jacket tight and blew on her hands. “It’s cold as Judgment Day today. Snow in the air.”
I played along. “I better get your snow tires on. Are they in the truck?”
She shook her head. “Next time. I just came for the eggs.”
Like hell, I thought. And before I could stop her, she was inside the house. For an old lady, she could move fast when she wanted to. She peered into my fridge, probably checking how many eggs I had. Which was none. Robin must have sneaked into the chicken coop before I got up.
She turned to me with a scowl. “I hope you’re not doing anything foolish, Ricky. You’re a long way from help out here.”
The detachment was just three miles up the highway, but I knew that wasn’t what she meant. “They’re just scared kids, Aunt Penny. Even if they were here, which they’re not.”
“Jessica Swan been out to see you?”
I nodded.
“Then you know what the cops found.”
“I know what I found too. They lived with a crazy man. He had traps and trip wires and Keep Out signs all over the place.”
She looked around my kitchen at all the sticky labels I’d put up. Her expression softened. “Ricky, I know they’re scared kids, but that boy may also be a killer. We don’t know what they’ve been through, but they may be dangerous. Especially if they’re desperate. It was on the radio this morning that you found the body. You don’t want to get caught in the middle.”
There had been one nosy reporter outside the Ossington detachment when the cops had finally let me go. They must have told him who I was. Somehow, I had to convince Aunt Penny that Robin and Marian were gone. Robin obviously trusted that I wouldn’t betray them. “I won’t be, Aunt Penny. They know better than to hang around here with all the cops snooping around.”
“Jessica Swan is no fool,” she said. “You don’t want to be caught helping fugitives either. That could land you in jail.”
She was looking in the sink now. Maybe checking for extra dishes. My cheeks grew hot, but I held my temper.
She must have noticed. Not much gets by her. When she headed back out to her truck, she glanced up at the sky. “I’m just doing you a favor, Ricky. The cops can use the satellites to spy on people now. And don’t forget that bullet hole in the girl. Robin might have put it there.”
I hadn’t forgotten. I also hadn’t forgotten my missing shotgun. I didn’t tell her about it, of course, but after she left, I started worrying. I wasn’t scared of Robin or Marian. I knew those kids. I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. But I did worry about what they’d do if the cops cornered them.
I didn’t know where they were. I had checked their hiding places and found no trace of them. But I knew they were out there somewhere, close enough to sneak back to the farm for food. But they were all alone in the bush, maybe with nothing but a lean-to of cedar boughs to protect them.
Aunt Penny was right about on
e thing. Snow was coming. Winter, with its cold that gets into your bones. Robin and Marian might be afraid to light a fire in case the smoke tipped off the cops. Marian was still very weak. Even if Aunt Penny’s antibiotics worked, it would be a long time before she recovered her strength. Living rough in the cold and damp could kill her yet.
And then there was the mysterious American. Who was he? What had he been up to? Was he the one lying dead in the woods? Was the crazy Russian on the loose, searching for his kids? No matter who was dead and who was still alive, it spelled danger for the kids. And I was the one who might have led that danger back here. Because of that nosy reporter, it might soon be all over the news that Cedric Elvis O’Toole had found the body. Not too many with that name in the phone book.
I went back into the barn to work on my trip wires. I’d never even needed locks on my front door, let alone an alarm system. I didn’t have time now to get fancy. A few bicycle horns and floodlights would have to do. I strung wires and switches to the gate and across the lane. I put another for good measure by the front door. By the end of the day, I was pretty proud of the system. It would work even if an intruder got out of his car and sneaked around my gate.
Next, I went inside and heated up a big pot of stew. It wouldn’t keep Marian and Robin warm all night, but it would get them started. I filled some old thermoses with stew and hot tea, wrapped them in more blankets and left them down by the vegetable garden.
In the morning they were gone. I made more stew and tea the next night. That also disappeared, replaced by the empty thermoses. I never saw the kids. Never looked for them either. I was afraid that if they knew I was looking, they’d run away for good.
We were just getting into a rhythm, and I was beginning to relax, when a few nights later a blast of noise woke me from a dead sleep. Chevy leaped off the bed, barking.
My bicycle horn! I rushed to the window. The yard was lit up like high noon. A truck was racing back down the lane, fishtailing wildly. In the floodlights, it was easy to see the tailgate plastered with bumper stickers. I couldn’t make out any words, but I recognized the Confederate flag.
The American had come.
Fifteen
Later that night, the first snow fell. In the morning I headed down to check my vegetable patch. Everything was covered with snow now, but the empty thermoses had been returned as usual. A trail of small footprints led back and forth to the woods. I winced. The boy would have had to walk for quite a while in the open field. Easy to see, either from the sky or from a nearby truck.
I packed some more thermoses and put Chevy on a leash. It was a cold, gray day with a chill wind. As long as there wasn’t more snow, the footprints would be easy to see. Chevy and I followed the trail deep into my woods and crossed onto the neighbor’s woodlot. The land wasn’t much use for farming, but long ago it had been logged, and my neighbor still did some cutting. The property was crisscrossed with old logging roads. I was walking with my head down, following the footprints as they turned onto a logging road. I stopped dead.
There were tire tracks on the road. Sinking deep into the snow. Slithering, spinning, as they followed the path of the footprints. Was it the American? How the hell had he found the trail? My scalp prickled. My skin grew cold. Chevy growled, a low rumble in her throat.
I broke into a jog, stumbling and slipping on the uneven road. Panting for breath, I scanned the woods ahead. Nothing. The wind was picking up. Whipping the snow into eddies. I squinted. A flash of metal caught my eye through the snow. I ran faster. Chevy was pulling at the leash. The flash of metal became a pickup truck, stuck in the middle of the road. A mid-nineties Ford F-150. It had earned its share of dents and scrapes, and its worn tires were dug deep into the snow.
It had an Alabama license plate. Faded bumper stickers all over its tailgate. Honk if you love Jesus. God is my co-pilot.
And a Confederate flag.
I crept toward the truck nervously. I couldn’t see anyone inside, but I wasn’t taking any chances with this guy. It was a big truck, decked out with a heavy-duty suspension, tinted windows and roof lights. Once I got close enough, I tried to peer through the tinted windows. It looked empty inside.
I tried the door. It was unlocked, the keys still in the ignition. This truck wasn’t going anywhere. Fast-food containers and road maps covered the passenger seat, along with a guidebook to hunting in Canada. Behind the seat were a duffel bag and a pile of blankets and pillows. On the floor of the passenger side sat a battered cardboard box of toys. All old and well used. I’m no expert on toys, but I recognized Barbies and Care Bears from when I was a kid.
I flipped open the glove compartment and found a wallet and an American passport in the name of Leonard Steele. By his birth date, he was forty-eight.
I got back out of the truck. Stared around me. Listened to the quiet. Where was the guy? Ahead, two sets of footprints led up the road. One small set followed by another made by giant boots with a thick tread.
A vise gripped my gut. I climbed into the bed of the truck. It was empty except for some grimy tools and a rusty storage box. I opened it. It was crammed with tools and emergency equipment, but the only thing that mattered to me was the rifle case sitting on top. It was open. And empty.
Just as I was figuring out what that meant, a gunshot cracked the air.
Sixteen
The shot was still echoing when I heard a scream. Long, drawn-out and full of rage. My heart stopped. I froze, searching the woods. Where had the scream come from? Up ahead? From the side? The wind muffled sound, and the echo seemed to come from everywhere.
Chevy stood stock-still, her ears pricked. She was staring up the road. Follow the prints, I thought. I jumped down from the truck and hit the trail running. Stumbling and sliding, I raced along the road. Chevy strained on the leash, frantic to go faster. I panted to keep up. No time to think what I would do alone against a man with a gun.
A bend appeared in the road. Between gasps for air, I heard voices. I skidded to a stop, yanking hard on Chevy’s leash. I needed a plan. I couldn’t charge into the middle of danger. I had to see what I was facing. And I had to make sure Chevy didn’t bark. Or try to play hero.
I ducked off the road behind some cedars and tied her to a strong tree. After a whispered Hush, I left her. I crouched low. Started to scramble forward through the woods. The voices continued, jumbling over each other. Rough, urgent and angry. I couldn’t see anything, but suddenly Robin screamed. Slicing the cold air like a knife.
“Nicky, shoot him! Shoot him!”
A man’s voice replied, too soft and low to understand. Then more yelling. A large boulder loomed ahead, blocking my view. I raced toward it, keeping low and out of sight. Pressed myself against it.
“Nicky,” the man was saying, “don’t you remember?”
I peered over the top of the boulder. There was a small clearing in the brush, with a lean-to made of boards and branches. A man in a camouflage vest and baseball cap was standing at the edge of the clearing. His rifle hung loosely in one hand, pointing at the ground. His gaze was fixed on Marian.
Marian was about fifteen feet away, standing just outside the lean-to. She had my mother’s shotgun pointed straight at the man’s chest. It weighed at least ten pounds, and she was weaker than a newborn. The shotgun trembled in her grip. But her gaze was as steady as a coyote staring down its prey.
I was roughly between them. If I stepped out, I would be right in the path of any bullets that flew from either side. I didn’t like my odds. Robin picked up a handful of snow and threw it at the man. Then a rock. An empty cup. The man didn’t even duck as it hit him in the head. But his eyes turned as hard as steel.
“Shoot him!” Robin yelled. “He killed our father!”
Steele held out his free hand. I saw now it had a doll in it. “Nicky, I’m your uncle Lenny. Don’t you remember? Your mama’s brother? Remember I give you this doll for your eighth birthday? You had a party in the yard, barbecued wings and corn? You lo
ved this doll. Called her Lily Mae.”
For an instant, the shotgun shifted on Marian’s shoulder. She blinked. Then she tightened her grip and stared down the sight.
Steele waved the doll. “Look at it! I kept it for you all these years. Never gave up—”
“Lie!” Robin grabbed a stick and rushed toward Steele. The man raised his gun. That was enough for me. I stepped out.
“Robin,” I said. As quiet and calm as I could. Inside, my heart was hammering. “Don’t.”
Steele whirled toward me. “Who the hell are you!”
“This is my land.”
“Back off. Nothing to do with you. I just come for these children.”
“These children are—”
“Put the gun down!” Marian’s voice was like a whip. We all spun around to look at her. She had taken half a dozen steps forward. Struggled to keep the gun propped against her shoulder. “Put. The. Gun. Down.”
I was afraid she’d drop it. Or, worse, fire it. The recoil would knock her into the next county. “Marian, give me the gun.”
Robin stamped his feet. “He kill our father!”
“I know, Robin. The police know.” Not quite true, but I had to think fast. “They are on their way. Marian, let me handle him.”
I’ve never been much of a hero, but I’d watched enough John Wayne movies with my mother to know how they act. How they talk. I put as much John Wayne as I could into my voice. “I can handle it.”
The shotgun was already drooping. Marian lowered her eyes. They were filled with tears now as she handed me the gun. The cold steel barrel had just touched my hand when Steele made his move. He lunged at Robin, yanked him toward him and angled the rifle barrel against the boy’s head.
The Night Thief Page 5