Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  “They did.” Pollock leaned down and looked at the box’s end. “You’ve got the wrong carton. This one’s from 2009. You want 2010, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He replaced the lid and bent to pick up the box, but stopped mid-reach. The itch was back. Nagging the back of his brain. A thought creeping in, struggling to form an idea. Jeremy doodled a circle in the dust on the box’s top and stared at the shelves of cartons. Year after year after year.

  The wildlife officer cleared his throat. “Want me to grab the one from 2010?”

  “What? Um, no. Not yet. I think I want to look through this one first.”

  Pollock tilted his head and parted his lips, but said nothing.

  Jeremy pulled a handful of folders from the box and began skimming through the forms. “See if he’s in here.”

  “What? See if who’s in here?”

  “Thornquist. Maybe he came here more than once.”

  Pollock grabbed a folder. “Same time every year kind of thing, huh? This one of those hunches you guys always get?”

  Jeremy grunted a response.

  Twenty minutes and a dozen folders later, he had his answer. Thornquist had been at the park the year before. Same month, different day. Not earth- shattering, but interesting. He grabbed the carton from the same period in 2008. Confirmed. Three years in a row, Barry Thornquist visited the wildlife refuge in the month of April. A bit more interesting.

  His pulse quickened as he compared the names of the other visitors with his notes. Other than the victim, only one other person had signed a waiver on the same three days. A woman named Roslyn Martin.

  Could be coincidence. Jeremy knew it wasn’t. Thornquist had not been alone. More digging in the files needed to be done, but that would have to wait. No time. Witness or murderer, either way he needed to talk to this Ms. Martin. The address on all three of her forms was in Lexington, a little less than two hours away. It would be early evening by the time he arrived. Maybe find a hotel and check in, gather some data on the woman. He hated walking into a situation completely blind. Talk to her in the morning and either continue the investigation or head on to Virginia. He’d make that decision after he heard what she had to say.

  He wanted to think that if the woman had information on the murder, she’d have come forward unless she was somehow involved. Or scared. But these days, you never knew. Sometimes people simply didn’t want to get involved. Figured it was none of their business that another human being had been killed. Hey, at least it wasn’t them, right? Of course, it was entirely possible she knew nothing about it. Just an old girlfriend or something.

  This could all be a colossal waste of time, but for the first time, Jeremy felt he was close to something solid. Tangible. Roslyn Martin may not have answers, but she might at least clarify the questions. It was good to finally feel optimistic again.

  He called his office to confirm her address was still valid and was put on hold while someone checked. An upbeat country song trickled through the car’s speakers, and he turned up the radio’s volume. A couple of young women sang about their men treating them right. Or else. Bet Maggie likes this one.

  The phone clicked, and Jeremy got his answers. Roslyn Martin had no criminal record, born and raised in Lexington, Kentucky, and was seventeen years older than Barry Thornquist. No known connection between the two, but her address was no longer current. Jeremy sighed and punched the radio knob, turning off the girl duo in mid-lyric.

  Roslyn Martin had moved to a new, more permanent location in the Meadow View Cemetery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jeremy bit softly on the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore the cell phone lying in the passenger seat. He’d been driving for a couple of hours, and Lexington was now behind him. Plenty of sunlight left before he had to decide whether to stop for the night or continue the crowded journey along I-64 to Virginia.

  He had to let Bailey know he’d hit a dead end but there was still hope. Roslyn Martin was the victim of a horrific auto accident, but her friends and family might know something helpful.

  Why did she meet Barry Thornquist every year at the Big Oaks Refuge? Lovers? She was seventeen years older than the murder victim, so a tryst was possible, but not likely. Illegal activity fell more in line with his thinking.

  Five-fifteen. Bailey would still be at work. Best to hold off until he stopped for the night, then leave a voicemail. That would eliminate the opportunity for questions and give him the weekend to plan his next steps.

  His body had other ideas. The left leg throbbed again, reminding him of times and places and people. Though short-lived, this new pain shooting from his calf to hip could be intense and needed to be checked out by a doctor when he got the chance.

  The mental torment created by the pain’s reminder, well, that was a different matter entirely. Afghanistan and Cronfeld and death intertwined into a braid of anguish. He gripped the steering wheel and clenched his teeth to the point his jaws ached. Better stop and stretch. Top off the tank, grab a cup of coffee, then make the call to Bailey. Might as well get it over with.

  The aroma streaming from the truck stop’s row of coffee pots beckoned him, and he sampled each variety before settling on a dark Sumatran blend strong enough for the spoon to stand by itself. Elly May Clampett coffee. He grabbed a bag of kettle corn to snack on after dinner, whenever and wherever that might be, before paying and returning to his vehicle.

  In the car, he took a sip of the murky mud, closed his eyes, and tried to focus his thoughts before making the call. With any luck, this would be the day his boss went home after only twelve hours of work.

  Two rings and “Good evening, Agent Winter. I expected you’d be calling.”

  Jeremy slumped back into his seat. “Yes, sir. Good evening. Just wanted to update you on what I found today.”

  “Give me the short version, please.”

  “Once a year, for the past three years at least, Barry Thornquist met a woman named Roslyn Martin in the national wildlife park where his body was found. The local PD didn’t have that information in their reports. We need to follow up and get more details.”

  “Nothing to tie either Thornquist or Martin to the other three cases on your list?”

  Jeremy knew where the conversation would turn next if he didn’t deflect Bailey. “Not yet, but this is the first solid lead. Could be the thing that cracks open the door to everything.”

  “It’s thin. Did you talk to this Martin woman yet?”

  He sighed and shook his head. The battle was over and he’d barely fired a shot. “No, sir. Roslyn Martin passed away in a car accident a little over a year ago. But she lived with her mother and she—”

  “Turn it over to the locals. You get on the identity fraud case.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I still—”

  “Anytime someone starts a sentence ‘with all due respect,’ I know I’m not going to like what’s coming next, so let me save you the trouble. No. You can’t have more time.” Bailey sighed. “Listen, Agent Winter. Maybe there’s something to your theory or hunch or whatever we’re calling it. Lord knows you’ve been right far more often than not. I’d love to have the resources to tell you to run with this, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t.”

  Jeremy swallowed more coffee and let the bitterness wash throughout his body. “I understand completely, sir.”

  “Yeah, I know you do. Doesn’t make it any easier. If one of the local detectives is able to make some sort of connection, we’ll readdress it. Until then, you’re to have nothing further to do with these murders and disappearances. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t test me on this, Agent Winter. I’ve done what I can for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Have a good evening, sir.”

  “Yeah. You too.”

  Jeremy flipped his phone into the passenger seat. Bailey was wrong. Someone was out there. A killer who c
laimed victims at will, and now no one would be looking for him. There’d be more disappearances. More deaths. There always were.

  He flexed his fingers and drew his lips into a thin line. I’ve done what I can for you. That’s what Bailey had said. As Maggie might say, it didn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure that out. Politics trumped everything, at least where he was concerned.

  From three hundred fifty miles away, the hollow echo of that wretched plastic office clock burrowed into his brain.

  Tick.

  No more time to investigate.

  Tick.

  Identity fraud.

  Tick.

  Find the money. Forget the murders.

  Tick.

  Why? Because some government hotshot decided it was more—

  Tick.

  Heat like a furnace flashed through Jeremy. He snatched the cell phone and threw it at the windshield. A woman exiting the store shuffled her two children toward their minivan, her eyes focused intently on him.

  Pieces of the phone lay strewn on the dash. Hopefully just need to pop the battery back in. Or fill out the paperwork to requisition a new one. Again. At least the windshield didn’t crack.

  Tick.

  He buried his face in his hands. What now? Bailey had made it clear enough. Move on. And truthfully, he’d have made the same decision if they swapped places.

  Jeremy didn’t have the answers, but he believed, even if no one else did.

  He’d made his decision.

  Tick.

  Had to get to Virginia.

  Tick.

  Let Maggie hear it all. His past. Their future.

  Tick.

  Hold her hands. See if they trembled, or worse, pulled away.

  Tick.

  First though, he’d have to try and repair his phone.

  Tick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mason lingered in the rocking chair on his back porch, watching as the pale pink fingers of sunrise darted around the clouds. Wisps of fog sank into the open farmland and moved through the valleys. Water beaded on his forehead, and he brushed the droplets away. It was going to be a hot one, but that was to be expected with summer just around the corner.

  No better way to start the day. Coffee in hand and a plate of biscuits cooling on the plastic table next to him. His wife watering the hanging baskets full of ferns and petunias. Birds chirping, dragonflies buzzing, and cattle mooing.

  A man couldn’t ask for more from his life. Demanding that others sacrifice so he could maintain his slice of heaven, well, that was their problem. Not like any of them had the least inkling about what mattered. Survival of the fittest and all that stuff, although his family would do more than simply survive. They would—

  “Want me to get the boys up?” Paula asked.

  “Let ’em sleep in. School’s out, and not a lot needs doing this week. Besides, they earned it with all the work they put in yesterday. The garden’s looking good. You need to see if you can’t get rid of some of those tomatoes before they go bad, though.”

  She chuckled. “The neighbors have been calling me to see if I can take theirs. Everybody’s got them coming out of their ears. I’ll get them put up this week. Still got to figure out what to do with all the squash and corn, though. Maybe we ought to cut down on the garden next year.”

  Mason shook his head. “Can’t. Sure as we do, it’ll be a bad crop. Best to keep it as is. Better too much than not enough.”

  She emptied the last of her water pitcher into a flowerpot full of daisies. “You’re right as rain, as usual. Maybe we can try to sell some of the vegetables this fall when we open the pumpkin patch.”

  “Speaking of, about time to get to work on a few changes. Got to figure out a better way to do the parking. Had a few folks complain about being blocked in last year.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like we don’t have the land. I’ll get the boys to bush hog a couple of strips down by the corn maze. As long as we don’t get too much rain, should be fine.”

  Mason held his coffee cup to his mouth and let steam condense on his upper lip. “That’ll be fine. I swear this thing gets bigger every year. Lot of work.”

  “You complaining?”

  “Not a bit. Folks seem to like it, and the extra money don’t hurt none either. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m planning on borrowing some horses for the hayride. Give that old tractor a rest.”

  Paula smiled and patted her husband’s shoulder. “Borrow horses? Or buy?”

  He cut his eyes toward her. “Borrow. And if it works out, buy.”

  She winked at him. “Uh-huh. And why am I so sure it’ll work out? You’ve always wanted your own horses. Just never could figure out how to justify the cost.”

  Mason shrugged and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s about giving the people what they want, honey. Had some customers complain about the tractor fumes last year.”

  “Oh, and the horses smell soooo much better. Not to mention I’ve never stepped in a pile of tractor fumes.”

  “Thinking that if we do get them, come next spring I’ll get out some of the old equipment and hitch it up. Train the horses to pull a plow and let the boys see what farming used to be.”

  “Boys and their toys,” she said. “Speaking of, UPS dropped off a package for you yesterday. I put it out in the new barn. The box said it had live insects inside.”

  He stood, stretched, and yawned. “Appreciate it. More praying mantises and other bugs. I’ll take care of them today.”

  “They helping?”

  Hungry little buggers. “Near as I can tell. Not as many flies and other insects in the barns and storm shelter.”

  “Good, as long as they don’t chase all the spiders into the house.” She shuddered and a drop of coffee sloshed out of her cup onto her apron.

  He waited until she glanced away then trickled his fingers up her arm to her neck. “Spider!”

  She jerked away from him and swatted his hand. “Don’t do that!”

  “I was just having some fun.” He leaned over and kissed her, smacking his lips when done. “Mmm. Biscuit crumbs.”

  Her breathing slowed and she returned the kiss. “I want my biscuit back.”

  “That’s better.” He reached behind and squeezed her rear.

  She licked her lips and pressed against him. “Somebody’s in an awful good mood. Got a big day planned?”

  “Not really. Got to clean up a few things in the old barn. Might spend some time this afternoon on the Internet figuring out this year’s corn maze. That’s about it, though.”

  “Need any help?”

  Mason shook his head. “I can handle it. Barely enough to keep me busy as it is.”

  She winked and brushed her hand on his thigh. “Well, if you’re looking for something to do ...”

  He opened his eyes as wide as possible and placed a hand on his chest. “Why, Mrs. Miller. On a weekday?”

  A ragged cough echoed from the kitchen. “Mom! Where are you? Any biscuits left?”

  Mason stood, stretched, and kissed his wife again. “Best get those boys some breakfast. We’ll finish this, um, conversation later.”

  “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  He grinned and arched an eyebrow. “Counting on it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mason carried the box of insects into the old barn and inched down the creaky ladder into the coolness of the root cellar. He flipped on the light switch, illuminating the mostly dirt room. The musty smell was a pleasant change. When he’d first started his new hobby, a rotting odor had permeated every inch of the space. Unpleasant, but tolerable if you worked quickly. However, like most things in life, the more you practiced, the better you got.

  And he had gotten better. Much better.

  Figuring out how to deal with the blood had been the biggest issue. Most folks had a gallon and a half of the stuff, barely more than a deer. It didn’t sound like a lot until he drained his first one down here.
The shallow pit he’d dug overflowed, and the sticky fluid spread over the dirt floor and formed an oversize fly trap. Cleaning up the mess convinced him to stick to what he knew next time. Dressing and cleaning a deer was second nature. Only difference was he couldn’t prep this prey out by the side of the barn.

  The cellar’s ceiling was high enough to hang up most folks, and an old tub he’d used for oil changes caught whatever drained after he cut the arteries. As long as he got the organs out quick, there really wasn’t any problem. Gutting a person wasn’t that much different from gutting a deer, except one you were going to eat and the other you weren’t. Didn’t mean you couldn’t find other uses for them, though.

  The oversize Whirlpool chest freezer against the wall kicked on, its orange power light reflecting off the huge pile of dark fertilizer bags beside it. Toting those fifty-pound sacks down here had been a workout, but the diesel fuel drums had been even worse. Had to have them down here though. Just hope there’s enough.

  He walked to the freezer and brushed the dust and hay from the top, remnants fallen through the cracks of the wooden floor above him. He lifted the lid and inspected the freezer-burned remains of Mr. Blue Shirt, AKA Simon Price.

  The torso, pelvis, and right leg remained, each wrapped in that cling film stuff he could never tear straight. The flesh had shrunken around the bones, giving an almost mummy-like appearance to the remains. Over on the workbench, the skull and hands, always the priority, were picked clean and awaited his attention. The fingers still needed to be wired together and connected to the upper hand bones. The phalanges and metacarpals they were called. Funny the things his hobby had taught him. All the other bones had already been worked and lay at the bottom of the freezer, waiting for their turn in the cast iron stove above, the final stop before the grinder.

  He moved across the room and slid a plastic tub toward the center so he could get a better view. The green tub had a red lid and was the perfect size to store Christmas trees or body parts, depending on your bent. He tapped the top several times to ensure no bugs clung there, then carefully removed the lid.