Deadfall

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Vicki dug into a cardboard box on her kitchen counter, where a dozen or so fliers remained. “Time to make new ones.” She pulled out the handful of fliers and folded the empty box, smashing it into the recycling bin in the laundry room, next to a half-dozen other empty boxes.

  Hopelessness threatened to end her efforts, but she fought it off. Picking up her hot tea and the fliers, she padded to the kitchen table, where she had set up a temporary workspace to track the reports and tips related to Brad’s case.

  Vicki set down her tea and powered up her laptop computer. She leaned back while it booted up, sipping her tea and making her list of things to do. Go to copy place to make more fliers. Call Deputy Wyatt.

  Find Brad.

  She crossed out the note to call the deputyicki didn’t want to hear his version of the story anymore, and he was getting tired of her almost daily calls.

  “I’m officially listing Brad as a missing person,” he’d said just two weeks after Brad disappeared. “Unofficially, I think we’re dealing with a suicide.” He hadn’t changed his story.

  Vicki hadn’t wanted to hear that. She couldn’t believe it. Brad had been raised to believe in the sanctity of life. His faith would prohibit him from killing himself. Even in Brad’s darkest days, he’d call on occasion just to check in. Besides, there was no body. It wasn’t unusual to lose a body on a river that strong and wide. The body could have floated downriver and gotten caught on something. She shuddered to think about that. The current was so strong and the river so vast. Vicki closed the door on those morbid thoughts. Brad was still alive. But if that was the case, where was he?

  The theory that he left town and didn’t want to be found was equally unlikely. Brad just wouldn’t do that.

  Vicki tossed the pen aside, got up, and walked down the hall into Brad’s old room. She’d turned it into a sewing/guest room, but her son would always be welcome. It would always be his room. Sitting on his bed, she let her blurred gaze wander over the walls. Shelves on one side held Brad’s trophies and mementos, photos of him winning race after race. Ribbons held medals of silver, bronze, and gold. She’d even hung the ribbons from his high-school sports competitions.

  Rachael’s medals were there too—the ones she’d won downhill skiing. She could have been an Olympian, but she chose a business degree and a husband and family over competition.

  “Oh, Brad,”Vicki said aloud, “you had so much promise. What happened? What went wrong? Did we push you too hard? Why the drugs and the drinking? Why did you feel you needed friends like that—why Jessica?” She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and went in search of some tissues.

  Jessica swore she had loved Brad. But where was she now? Less than a week after Brad went missing, Jessica packed her bags and moved back to California to live with an aunt and uncle in Crescent City on the coast. In fact, Jessica did a great deal more than just pack her bags. She also helped herself to some of Brad’s sweaters and his watch, guitar, and collection of CDs and DVDs.

  “Why would you do that, Jessica? Didn’t you think he’d be coming back?” Vicki found some tissues in the bathroom and blew her nose; then she returned to the bedroom and went on lamenting Jessica’s actions.

  Of course, Jessica had taken all the money Brad might have had. She claimed she hadn’t, but Todd figured Brad had a couple thousand in cash at the cabin. The money was gone, and Jessica claimed to know nothing about it. It was as if Jessica knew Brad wasn’t going to be found. Why else would she leave so soon after his disappearance and take things Brad would want when he returned? Brad hadn’t made November’s house payment, so Todd covered it, saying they needed to protect Brad’s investment. Vicki agreed, but she felt the reason was more personal—Todd wanted Brad to have a place to live when he came home. They’d made three payments now, and the cabin still sat empty.

  Vicki dragged her thoughts away from the negative turn they’d taken. Every day—several times a day—she slipped into this ruminating mode, going over and over the circumstances surrounding Brad’s disappearance. And every day, she prayed that things would be resolved and Brad would come home. She wanted it to be over, wanted to get on with life. She needed closure—some kind of closure. Any kind of closure.

  Vicki pushed herself from the bed. With a heavy heart and legs of lead, she headed back to the kitchen table and sat at her temporary desk.

  Work. You have to work. She picked up a white plastic binder and slipped on her reading glasses. Vicki thumbed through the pages, primarily at the bottom of the pile. She found the interview report for Jessica, written by Deputy Wyatt. The report indicated the deputy had interviewed Jessica the day following Brad’s reported disappearance.

  Vicki thumbed through the tattered pages of the search-and-rescue logs to get to the police reports, scanning the pages she had read a hundred times. In the report, Deputy Wyatt summarized his conversations with Jessica without going into much detail.

  There were no tape recordings, not even any challenges to Jessica’s unusual reaction to Brad’s disappearance. Vicki wondered why a detective wasn’t called in to interview Jessica or at least to go over the reports of the officers involved with the search.

  In the report, the deputy had written the same basic story Jessica had told her and Todd. There were a few additional details. Jessica reported that she and Brad went to the falls that day to talk about their relationship and that Brad had been drinking heavily.

  She also reported that Brad had smoked marijuana while they were talking in the parking lot. Vicki never read that part of the report without getting angry. She was so certain her son had gotten past the drinking and drug stage. Now Jessica had shifted the bulk of the blame to Brad.

  Sweet, cute little Jessica apparently hadn’t touched a drop. When Jessica told Brad to stop and that she’d have to drive home, he became angry. She told him basically to shape up or she was leaving.

  Vicki rubbed her forehead. “What really happened out there, God? Will we ever know?”

  Brad had assured them that he’d stopped smoking marijuana and had smashed a glass pipe in front of his father to confirm he was giving up the drug. Was all that for show?

  What was it Brad had said? “I’m trying to quit. I want to, but you don’t know what it’s like when your friends are addicted. And all Jessica wants to do is party.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to us, would you, Brad?” Vicki asked aloud. “And if you were telling the truth, then Jessica must be lying.”

  Going back to Deputy Wyatt’s report, she read:

  Jessica reported that during this conversation in Brad’s car, she told Brad she was leaving him and was planning on moving out to stay with friends or return to live with her family. She said Brad had become physically abusive to her, and although she loved him, Jessica no longer wanted to be the object of his aggression. Brad became enraged when she told him their relationship was over. He reportedly grabbed her arm, and she told him to let go because he was hurting her. The alcohol and marijuana, mixed with the subject matter, caused Brad to grow increasingly irritable and threatening. Jessica claimed she was able to pull herself free from Brad’s grip and get out of the passenger side door of the car. She began walking away when Brad again grabbed her arm. Jessica said she tried to push him away, but he was too strong and too upset. Brad reportedly said, “If I can’t have you, then no one will.”

  Vicki shook her head. How melodramatic. Brad wouldn’t act like that. She’d told Deputy Wyatt what she thought of Jessica’s so-called statement, but there it was, still in the report along with the strange story of an elusive truckdriver who deputies had never found.

  During the altercation Jessica said a trucker got out of his tractor-trailer rig and walked over to them, carrying a large flashlight. Because he didn’t need it for light yet, he appeared to be carrying it as a weapon.

  The truckdriver, a man in his fifties, intervened, asking Jessica if she needed any help. Brad told the man to back off and mind his own business, then
he shoved the driver back with clinched fists. The truckdriver’s straw cowboy hat fell to the ground as the man struggled to regain his balance.Brad and the would-be hero squared off, with the driver flipping the large flashlight from hand to hand as though he’d used it in a fight before. The trucker asked Brad repeatedly if he wanted a “piece.” Brad stood in the parking lot in a fighting stance, saying, “Come and get it, man.”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. Every time she read the account, it sounded more unbelievable.

  Jessica said she was hysterical at this point, telling the truckdriver she was okay and begging the man to leave Brad alone. The driver finally backed off and went to his truck, yelling threats at Brad as he stormed off. Jessica said the driver even cussed at her for causing such a fuss. Brad didn’t want to let it go. He challenged the driver to come back. She said the trucker told Brad, “I’m not done with you, boy,” and climbed back inside a red semi truck tractor with a silver trailer.

  Brad went back to the car and grabbed another beer from the backseat, took several long drinks, then threw the can into the parking lot and slammed the door. Brad was crying at this point and yelled, “Why!” Then he started walking up the trail to the falls. When Brad disappeared into the thick brush along the trail, Jessica went back to the Subaru and ended up taking a nap out of exhaustion. When she woke a couple of hours later, Jessica reported being scared because it was getting dark and Brad was still gone. She said the truckdriver who came to her aid hours earlier was still sitting in his truck, watching her, which frightened her more.

  Jessica drove back home to see if anyone had heard from Brad.

  That was when Jessica had called the police, then Vicki and Todd.

  What bothered Vicki most about the report was the very end, when the deputy had asked Jessica what she thought had happened. “Maybe he jumped. People kill themselves at places like this all the time, don’t they?”

  How dare she imply that Brad would end his life!

  Vicki tossed the report on the pile. She knew that report by heart—she could recite it in her sleep. Still she read it every day, hoping it would trigger something, reveal a new clue.

  “What a load of bunk.” Vicki slammed the binder shut. The daily ritual of reading the report brought the usual anger and frustration— at the deputy, at Jessica, and even at Brad. And then there was the issue of his car keys. Jessica said he’d left them with her. But Brad always kept them in his pocket—he wouldn’t have gone off without them.

  Had he tossed her the keys before he went off in this alleged rage? “How did you get those keys, Jessica?” Vicki asked aloud.

  “Why did you move away so quickly? And why did you tell Deputy Wyatt about the marijuana and the mysterious truck-driver, but not us?”

  Vicki folded her arms on the table and dropped her head to them, weariness overtaking her despite the caffeine. Jessica had avoided talking to them that first week. She hadn’t even come out to the falls except for the first day. How could the authorities just let her walk? Couldn’t they see she was lying?

  “You are not getting away with this, Jessica. You know what happened to Brad, and I’m going to hound you until I have some answers.”

  Vicki grabbed a pen and a clean sheet of paper.

  Dear Jess,

  I hope this letter finds you well. The weather is treacherous here, although beautiful with all the ice on the trees and power lines. The sun came out this morning, but it is still well below freezing.

  Jessica, please tell me what happened to Brad! I know you know more than what you told us and the police. I will forgive you if you only tell the truth. We treated you like family, Jess, because Brad loved you. Was there an accident?Did Brad fall or take some type of drug that harmed him?

  If you ever really loved Brad, call me and at least talk to me. I need to know what happened to my son. Not knowing is worse than death. Unless you are a parent, you could never understand the hurt inside a mother’s heart when her child is missing, hurt, or even worse.

  Jessica, I pray for you every day. I pray you will find it in your heart to tell me the truth, even if it is just me. Todd and I don’t want you to get into any trouble, and we won’t ask the police to get involved if you are afraid.

  I fear the worst, Jess, and I know in my heart that you hold the key to Brad’s disappearance, if only you would talk to me.

  Why did you move away after Brad went missing? How come you didn’t stick around and see what happened to him?And Jessica, why did you take Brad’s clothes and guitar when you left? You knew he would want them when he returned.

  Jessica, is Brad dead? He is my son, and I need to know.I need to know. Call me anytime. Call us collect, Jess, or write. Please.May God guide your actions.

  Victoria

  Ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks,Vicki folded the letter and enclosed some stamps and a blank envelope before stuffing the package into another envelope. She tapped the letter against her hand, wondering if sending it was the right thing to do. The deputies had told her to let them handle the investigation and to run any ideas she had through them. Vicki had lost patience with the deputies— with everyone, for that matter. Sending the letter wouldn’t hurt. She doubted Jessica would respond, but she had to try.

  Leaving the letter on the table, she walked over to the kitchen counter, picking up her now-cold tea. She took a sip and grimaced, then poured the tea down the sink. Maybe she would grab a chai tea on her way to mail the letter.

  10

  MAC SQUINTED through the rain-soaked trees and tried to control his breathing. In through the nose; out through the mouth. He jogged up to a fifty-gallon barrel, lifted the muzzle of his Glock .40 over the top, and peered over the sights.

  “You ready, Mac?” Kevin asked, keeping his voice low. He slid in next to Mac behind the hard cover.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Mac whispered back.

  Kevin slumped behind Mac. Placing his left elbow on Mac’s broad right shoulder, the senior detective lifted the muzzle of his handgun to eye level and advanced on the threat.

  “Let’s move in. I’ll follow your lead.” Mac rose slowly, still peering over the sights of his semiautomatic pistol.

  “You step, then I’ll step. We’ll move as one unit.”

  “Wait.” Mac peered at the figure to their left. “Is that guy holding a camera or a gun?”

  “I can’t tell. We need to move in and take a look.” Kevin inched ahead. “Let’s move in behind that second barrel.” Mac shadowed Kevin, the detectives moving together.

  “Police! Don’t move!” Mac ordered. “Oregon State Police.

  Drop the weapon or you may be shot!” He and Kevin jumped for cover behind a second metal barrel. Before Mac could give a third command, Kevin’s weapon exploded. Mac discharged his weapon a heartbeat later.

  “Drop the gun, drop the gun!” Kevin fired two rounds into the chest and one more to the head. Mac double-tapped two in, the first hitting the torso and the second hitting the shoulder.

  “Get down on the ground! Let me see your hands!” Mac yelled. The suspect still hadn’t flinched and still pointed a submachine gun at the two detectives.

  “Cease fire, cease fire.” The range master’s monotone voice preceded a shrill whistle. The Oregon State Police training instructor looked at his stopwatch and headed toward Mac and Kevin on the gravel firing range. “Not bad for a couple detectives,” he said. “Just shy of forty-five seconds, with five of six rounds in the kill zone.”

  “Five of six, what five of six?” Kevin asked.

  Mac eyed the target. They’d fired six shots, and one of them had missed the target’s center mass. Mac was certain the missed shot hadn’t been his.

  “Ask your partner.” The senior trooper lifted his pen from his clipboard and pointed it at the “bad guy” silhouette at the end of the pistol range.

  Kevin walked from the fifteen-yard line to examine the paper target. “Humph.” He gave Mac a crooked grin. “One of us threw a round
out into the shoulder. Looks like there are two in the head and three at center mass. If I had to guess, I’d say this shoulder shot was fired by the officer on the left side of the fire line.”

  “First rule of detectives, partner—never guess.” Mac smirked and shoved a fresh magazine into his pistol. “I deal in facts, old buddy. I’d say an aging detective with bad eyes is more likely to put a round into a shoulder than a young officer with twenty/twenty vision.”

  “Possible, yes,” Kevin replied. “Likely, no. See this?” He pointed to his gold-colored OSP baseball cap. The gold hat was rewarded to troopers in the agency who have shot a perfect score on the twenty-five-yard handgun qualification course. Mac had been close a few times, but never higher than the ninety-eighth percentile.

  Phil Johnson, a.k.a. Philly, sidled up to Kevin and slapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, but tell Mac when you won that hat, you old buzzard.” Philly pulled out his earplugs and smashed them into his pocket. “I think we were, what, half a year out of recruit school?” Philly tried to knock the hat off Kevin’s head. “That hat’s older than you, Mac.”

  Kevin ducked and blocked Philly’s hand before it connected. “I don’t remember you ever having an expert cap, Philly.” Kevin held onto his hat while he picked up his spent casings.

  “I’m a lover, not a shooter,” Philly joked, finally grabbing the hat with his thick fingers and tossing it over to his partner, Russ.

  “Look at that—still got my catlike reflexes.” Philly struck his best Bruce Lee pose.

  “Better ease up, Karate Kid, before you split your pants again.”

  Russ handed the cap back to Kevin with a laugh. “You look like a constipated goose when you do that, Philly.”

  “Lucky for me I don’t value your opinion.” Philly tried his best to look offended.