The Lost Door

by Marc Buhmann

Stavic ran his hands through his hair then brushed the coke residue off the manila folder onto the coffee table. He picked the folder up and flipped through the pages.

  Nothing. Not a god damned thing.

  He tossed the folder back and looked around his small cliché apartment. Dark, dingy, papers scattered about, liquor bottles piled on the tables… the epitome of every fucking pulp book ever written. The only thing he didn’t do was smoke. That may have been because his mother was a chain-smoker, and he had always hated how their house smelled. Not to mention the walls had taken on a shade of piss over the years. Say what you wanted about his place now, at least it was only cluttered.

  Stavic never known his father; the man died before he was born. All he knew was that his name was Frank and was the result of an accident at the mill. His mother Abigail had done what she could to raise him right—gave him space to make mistakes and learn from them—and never hovered. He’d gotten into his fair share of trouble, but what teenage boy didn’t?

  In its heyday RIver Bend was a logging town, and to this day still produced a large amount of paper products that shipped nationally. Farmlands bordered it with not much north of them besides small tourist towns for outdoor enthusiasts. It was all fine by Stavic though: he’d take this any day over a big city. Too much noise, too much crime, too many assholes. He’d done his time in Chicago and it had nearly cost him his life.

  Stavic went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice then splashed in some whiskey. He had the glass to his lips when an image of Jennifer popped into his head. Her accusatory eyes glazing over as he tried to stem the bleeding from the hole in her abdomen.

  Hold on baby! Hold on!

  Stavic willed the image away. Poor sweet Jennifer. If not for her he’d be rotting in a coffin. He regarded his glass, poured in a bit more whiskey. He had a feeling it was going to be one of those nights.

  three

  Willem’s eyes fluttered open.

  Another restless night, another bad dream.

  Two nights in a row. He was lying in his recliner and it was still dark out, the sound of crickets coming through the open window. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

  It never came. The cricket chirps dissolved to cooing mourning doves. When the sky began to brighten Willem figured he might as well get up.

  He showered and had breakfast then went out and filled the bird feeder. He swept up the mess of seed the birds had left on his patio. While he may not take care of his yard like he should he’d be damned if he’d let these poor little fellows starve.

  The morning was sunny with small wisps of clouds drifting through the sky. It was days like this that Willem enjoyed, days that conjured memories of running through fields with his brothers, fishing in Willow Creek, and biking in the woods. Where had it all gone wrong?

  Whenever he thought of Elliott he got angry, but now that had given way to regret. Maybe he should reach out to him, but what would he say? Those sorts of calls were always the worst, the uncertainty of where the conversation would go.

  Maybe some fresh air would clear his head. What with the day being as beautiful as it was, and the nostalgia of childhood pulling at him, he decided a walk was just what he needed. He could follow the path he and his brothers used to take, detouring where needed to compensate for current development.

  Three boys on the opposite shoulder were walking towards him. Each looked to be about twelve, and they were having a heated conversation about something called Battlefield. Willem had no idea what Battlefield was, but he guessed it was some sort of game. That conjured memories of him and his brothers playing cops and robbers.

  As he walked he wondered how Elliott was doing. His wife and children were always pleasant to him, and he found himself missing their smiles and energy. Maybe I’ll give him a call when I get home.

  Sometime later he saw Willow Creek Bridge and more memories of his youth came back. This had been a magical place for him and his brothers to escape. One day it was medieval lands, a local hideout for robbers the next. It was their go-to spot for their ever expanding imaginations.

  He stopped in the center of the bridge and gazed south. The creek meandered past a willow tree some distance down before disappearing into a wood. A memory came to him, one of the willow tree and his brothers.

  It’s our buried treasure, he remembered Elliott telling him. You can’t tell anyone about it.

  God! He had forgotten all about the tin box with their buried treasure. Couldn’t be there anymore, not now, not after all these years. Some other kids must have discovered it by now surely. But maybe… And what had they buried? He couldn’t recollect.

  He heard the casting of a fishing line and looked down. A kid around ten-years-old stood at the edge of the creek, fishing pole in hand. “Any luck?” he called down.

  The boy looked up, eyed him nonchalantly. “A few bites.”

  Willem watched as the boy reeled in the line and cast again. He wasn’t very good at it. “How long you been fishing?”

  “I dunno. Hour maybe?”

  “No,” Willem said with a laugh. “Not just today.”

  The boy looked up. “An hour.”

  The amusement dissipated, and Willem felt bad for laughing.

  He watched the kid try again, the lure not getting very far.

  “You ever fish?” the kid asked without looking up.

  “Not in a long time, but yeah. I used to go with my brothers. Used to fish right about where you’re standing as a matter of fact.”

  The boy looked up. “Think you, uh, could give me some pointers?”

  He was in no hurry; what was the harm in helping this kid out? “Give me a second.”

  Willem worked his way down the embankment. It was steep, and the worn rut they used to use was hidden beneath long uncut grass. Several times he slipped on his way down. This had been easy when he was a kid, but at sixty-four not so much. The ground leveled off and Willem approached the boy who was reeling in again. “What’s your name?”

  “William.”

  Willem couldn’t help but smile. “When I was your age I had a good friend named William. I’m Willem. You can imagine the confusion the two of us caused in a group.” The boy smiled politely. “So let me see you cast.”

  The boy readied himself, pressed the release with his thumb, and flicked the pole hard over his shoulder. The lure only went half a dozen feet before smashing into the water. He looked at him expectantly.

  “You’re being too forceful.” He extended his hand. “Let me show you.”

  The boy handed over the pole and watched and Willem reeled it in. “The trick is to be gentle. Start by casting sideways. Once you’re comfortable with that you can go overhead. Like this.”

  Willem extended the pole, pressed the release, and flicked it. The lure glided through the air gracefully landing with a gentle plop.

  The boy beamed. “Let me try!”

  Willem reeled it up and handed the pole back over. The glint of the lure caught his eye and an image appeared from the depths of his memory. A green lure, much like this one. Maybe he had one like it when he was a boy? He shook it off. Didn’t matter.

  The boy readied the cast. “Like this?”

  “Yep. Just like that.”

  The boy cast smoothly, the lure landing nicely in the creek. The smile on the boy’s face radiated pure joy. “I did it! Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome. That’s a nice rod you got there by the way. Who gave it to you?”

  The smile dropped a bit. “My dad. Got it for me for my birthday.”

  “It’s your birthday today?”

  A nod.

  Willem felt bad for the boy. He should be learning to fish with his father, not some stranger who just happened to pass by.

  “Well happy birthday, William.”

  “Thanks.”

  Willem watched in silence as William practiced, each cast improving. “You’re a natural.”

  “It’s not really that hard once you get use
d to it.”

  “Very true.”

  Memories flooded back of his father taking him and Elliott fishing, then Sammy when he was older. Laughing, eating a picnic lunch their mother had made them. They mostly caught pan fish, but once he’d caught a bass. He remembered how excited and proud his father had been. That was before his father…

  He shook it off. Why did he keep thinking about his family after spending so many years pushing those memories aside? Maybe he should just swallow his pride and call Elliott. It had been ten years since they’d last spoke. Perhaps it was time to let bygones be bygones?

  “Keep practicing,” Willem said, “and soon you’ll be a master fisherman. Pleasure to meet you, William.”

  Willem turned and made his way back up the overgrown path. By the time he’d reached the top he’d decided he would go home and make the call. It was time.

  * * *

  As Stavic pulled into the parking lot of the boat launch, he noted that Harold already had the boat in the water and tied to the dock. He was at the end staring out at the river, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The launch was empty except for them. Harold’s truck and trailer were parked at the edge of the lot next to a row of trees. Stavic looked at his watch: 9:57. Apparently Harold wasn’t the fashionably late type.

  Stavic snorted a dash of coke. If he was getting in an aluminum boat that had the stability and grace of a cicada he needed something to calm his nerves. Grabbing the two cups of coffee he’d brought with him he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The day was sunny, but a bit on the cool side.

  Harold turned as Stavic approached. “Morning deputy,” and proffered a cup.

  “Thanks. And just call me Nicolas. Or Nick. Deputy is too formal for my taste.”

  “Fair enough.” Harold pulled the cigarette from his lips and graciously took the cup, sipping it. He flinched, almost dropping the cup. “Hot!” he said.

  “Good to know,” Stavic replied. He looked at the cigarette between Harold’s fingers.

  “Nasty habit, I know, but old habits die hard. Everyone is allowed one vice anyway, don’t you agree?”

  “Implicitly.” The twelve foot boat was three feet lower than the dock and bumped against it with a metallic thump. Stavic noted the small Evinrude outboard motor on the back of the boat. It looked ancient. “How old is this thing?”

  “I got it back in the seventies. Maintain it properly and these things will last a lifetime. I still have my father’s old one horse, one of those you have to wrap the rope around top manually. Thing still putts like a champ.” He took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked it into the water. “You ready?”

  Stavic slowly shook his head. “No, but let’s do it.” He sat on the dock and stepped into the aluminum tin can. It leaned to one side and he nearly fell in. Stavic caught himself, moved to center, and stabilized it. “Is this thing safe?”

  “Haven’t tipped it yet.” Harold got in effortlessly and sat, pulled the starter, and the engine roared to life. Once Stavic sat, Harold backed away from the dock, and then they were on their way. “So what are we looking for Nick?” he asked over the engine.

  “Anything out of the ordinary. Waters’ body was dumped most likely by way of the river, so we’re looking for boats, launches, docks, anything that would make that easier.”

  Woods encroached upon the river on either side, and besides birds and ducks they didn’t see any living thing. The engine was probably scaring away most of the animals. Stavic kept sipping at his coffee, looking from one side of the river to the other. Nothing stood out as being out of the ordinary. It was too early to think of this as a waste of time, but that’s certainly what it was feeling like. It didn’t help he was stuck on a boat the size of a large coffin. That said he felt comfortable with Harold’s piloting. Or maybe it was the cocaine. Either way, he wasn’t clawing to get off the boat like he’d expected.

  “Anything juicy you can share? I know you don’t tell the public everything.”

  They hadn’t released many details of their investigation, and he wasn’t sure how much he could trust with Harold.

  “Come on,” Harold prodded. “Give me something. You know what they say about bait shop owners? We’re like shrinks.”

  “That’s bartenders.”

  “Same difference.”

  Stavic couldn’t help but laugh. He had to give Harold credit: intentional or not, he was doing a good job putting him at ease.

  “Is it true he was skinned alive?” Harold asked.

  Stavic stared at Harold shocked. “Is that the rumor?”

  “One of them.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable. No, he wasn’t skinned alive.”

  “What then?”

  “He’d been gutted.”

  Now it was Harold’s turn to look shocked. “Oh that’s much better.” Harold paused, his eyes moving about as if searching. “It sounds similar to what happened back in the late 50’s. Know anything about that?”

  “First I’m hearing of it.”

  “Husband and wife murdered, much like you described.”

  “Did they ever catch who did it?”

  “Not that I heard. I’m guessing if they had there would have been a parade for those who’d managed it. Lot of people were scared for a while, waiting for something to happen to them.”

  It definitely couldn’t hurt to look into it. It wouldn’t be the first time an old case came back out of the blue.

  Stavic suspected Harold could be trusted to stay quiet, but he felt he had to say it just to be safe. “What I’ve told you you have to keep to yourself. Can you do that?”

  “I didn’t get to be this age by gossiping, Nick.”

  “Good.”

  They came to a point where a narrow waterway joined them.

  “What’s that?” Stavic asked.

  “Lake Crescent. Only lake in the area that connects to the river.”

  “Anything in there worthwhile?”

  “Nah. People’s cabins—all good people I might add—and that bar, The Thirsty Whale. Other than that not much. Good fishing if you’re into that sort of thing. There’s a good rock bed—”

  Stavic cut him off. “Let’s keep going.”

  They continued on another fifteen minutes in silence. The drone of the motor soothed Stavic, and he’d almost dozed off when Harold said, “Look over there.” Harold pointed to the right side of the river.

  Stavic did as instructed, the engine quieting as Harold slowed. “What am I looking at?”

  “A blind.”

  He didn’t see it. “You sure?”

  “Positive.” He idled in towards shore and, sure enough, there it was, made of pine branches and leaves sidled right up to the edge.

  “Pull in next to it,” Stavic instructed. Harold ran the boat aground, the aluminum boat echoing the scratching of sand and twigs beneath. He jumped out, grabbed the bow, and pulled the boat in. “Stay here.”

  Stavic inspected the blind. It was made of thick branches tied together with twine. The roof and walls were pine branches with leaves thrown over to fill in the gaps. It blended in perfectly with the forest around it. “I’m going to go take a look. Be back soon.”

  “Should I come with?”

  “No. I got this.”

  His walk was near silent over the earthen ground. The incline was gradual but long, and he started to get winded as he made his way up. Nature sang to him. As he climbed he tried to calculate where he was between town and where Waters was found. His rough estimate put him about two miles from Waters’ body—eight from town, three from where they started. They were also on the other side of the river, an area he knew next to nothing about.

  While he hadn’t grown up in River Bend, he’d grown up in a rural community that had plenty of woods where a boy could be mischievous. His mother had never remarried, and she was protective but not smothering which allowed for him to get into trouble from time-to-time. There’d been a couple times a police offic
er had escorted him home much to the dismay of his mother. He wouldn’t have considered himself a wild child, but he loved the adrenaline rush he’d get when jumping from the cliffs at the Eau Claire Dells into the cool water below, or drag racing out on a country road.

  Ironic that he became a cop.

  Stavic was ready to turn around when he crested the hill. Below sat a small log cabin no more than eight-hundred square feet. All was silent and still, no smoke wafting from the chimney. And while he did see a path running through the woods to the cabin he saw no vehicle. He was pretty sure he was alone and made his way down the hill quietly.

  Curtains were drawn across the windows. He walked along the perimeter listening intently for any sound coming from within. He was pretty sure he was alone so climbed the front porch.

  Should he knock or just enter? Best to play it by the book.

  Was that…? Stavic thought he heard movement. He rapped gently on the door.

  “Hello?”

  He listened. This time he didn’t hear movement but thought he heard something close. Maybe a cabinet or a door?

  “Police. Open up please.”

  When no one answered he took the knob and turned it. The door swung open.

  The dinginess made the hair on the back of his neck stand and he pulled his gun.

  “Show yourself,” he called out. From the stillness he knew he was alone in the dark cabin.

  But then what was that you heard? he asked himself.

  There was a kerosene lantern hanging on a rusty nail where he’d expected a light switch to be. This far off the beaten path there was probably no power. He found a book of matches on a utility shelf. He struck the match, the scraping sounded loud in the stillness. The flame flickered. He touched the match to the wick and the orange light illuminated the darkness.

  With each step on the wooden floor his boots sounded like a cannon echoing through the room. Not much here save for a bed, a nightstand next to it, and a recliner.

  And an eviscerated body.

  It was slumped against one wall, pale and naked. With the head drooping he couldn’t make out the face.

  “Nick?”