by Marc Buhmann
Elliott shook his head. “No, not at all.” There was a moment of hesitation, then he let out a long sigh. “The last few months before he disappeared even mom really had no idea what was going on with him.” He opened his mouth to say more, closed it.
“What?” Willem wanted to know.
Elliott looked at him with intense eyes. “Dad lost it. There is no other explanation. According to mom he was becoming increasingly paranoid and agitated, part of the reason—she thinks—he began to drink so heavily. You want to know why dad singled you out? It’s because he thought you weren’t you, that someone different had taken over.”
“Someone different? But that’s crazy.”
“That’s what mom tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. She tried to calm him, to get him help, but he refused. That’s why dad took out his anger on you. He was sick, Willem. Nothing more.”
“She told you?”
“We talked about it, yes. She couldn’t understand why you left the way you did or why you estranged yourself.”
“Because she didn’t do anything,” Willem said coldly. “All that I went through and she looked the other way.”
“But that’s the thing—she didn’t. You know the old adage ‘love blinds you’? There’s truth to that. She didn’t know how bad it had gotten for you because she still loved her husband and was trying to understand what was going on. So she wasn’t ignoring what was happening, she didn’t see it.”
“She had to have known—”
“Why? Because you told her?”
Had he talked to her about it at the time? He thought so, but now as he sat here he was second guessing himself. Regardless, the anger and disappointment he’d latched onto toward his mother and brother had grabbed onto him and wouldn’t let go. “Never you or mom or Sammy. Me. It was only me.” The tears began to flow again, this time freely, and without humility. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he understood why he’d become the man he had. “You want to know why I never married, Elliott?” He stood, wanting to be out of here, away from Elliott and the memories. He needed fresh air, the coolness of the breeze. “I was afraid.”
Willem went to the door, opened it.
“Please don’t go.”
“I need to step outside for a few minutes. Clear my head.”
“Have you ever considered that the accident gave him the excuse he needed to leave? Maybe he didn’t like what he was becoming and left to protect us?”
Willem didn’t buy it—couldn’t buy it. What father would run off like that?
Elliott coughed and seemed to deflate into the bed. “Sometimes you just have to let it go, Willem. Sometimes there just isn’t always an answer to be had.”
Willem looked back. “You want to know what I think happened to dad? I think he ran away like you said, and I think it was because of me. He abandoned us all because of me.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll be back.”
Elliott gave a slight nod. I understand, it said. Go.
And he did.
Elliott passed a few minutes later.
* * *
A few months ago David started to experience a longing for home. It was an intense feeling, one he couldn’t shake. The days leading up to David driving into town revealed little more than hints. Dreams or visions, truth or fiction, he felt a yearning as if some great wrong would soon be set right.
David stood outside 462 Baker Street, the home he’d owned with Lilly. Before coming here he’d gone back to the cabin where things had changed. For one the roadway had been cleared of the fallen tree. When he’d crested the hill he saw the house taped off with yellow police tape, a squad car parked in front. A crime scene? He saw no one outside and backed away. Last thing he wanted to do was be questioned by the cops. With the cabin temporarily off limits he’d decided to go to his old home and search for the necklace Lilly had shown him.
It used to be a pristine white one-story box with a picket fence, but now both were rundown, paint peeling. It hurt seeing the home he’d shared with his wife for forty years decaying like this. This place was a trove of memories, but now it looked like death had crept in.
He wondered who owned it now, if it was the same family whom he sold it to twenty years back, or if it was someone new? He knew looks could be deceiving, but it seemed the place had been all but abandoned. That’d be a shame. They’d always taken such good care of the property, making sure it had a fresh painting every few years.
The picket fence door sat askew, the latch uneven and unable to stay shut. It groaned when David pushed it open, the bottom wood scraping on the concrete. He noted the window shades were drawn as he walked along the concrete path between overgrown sections of grass. Stepping onto the porch he knocked.
And waited.
No one answered. He tried again, and after a full minute decided that no one was home. The door handle felt familiar, but the door wouldn’t open. It was too much to hope for, he supposed, to have it unlocked.
“Mr. Rottingham?”
He turned to the aged yet sweet voice. His old neighbor, Cynthia McCormick, stood on her porch, mail in hand.
“Is that you?” she asked.
“Indeed it is,” he said stepping off the porch with a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
The shock on her face was obvious. “I can say the same. What are you doing here?” She met him at the fence.
“Good will tour.”
She laughed politely and slapped his arm with the mail. “Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, no. I have somewhere to be in a little while. Had time to kill so I figured I’d check out the old homestead.”
Her warmth darkened a bit. “Shame what’s happened to the place. You and Lilly always kept it up so nice. You were the envy of the neighborhood.”
He chuckled. “I doubt that. What happened though?”
“The Reeds—they’re the ones you sold it to. Frank ended up losing his job, and when that happened they fell into foreclosure. They ended up moving, and the place has been vacant ever since. Twelve, thirteen years. Something like that.”
“Thirteen, huh?”
“Baker’s dozen.”
“So the bank owns it now?”
“Yeah. We’ve been trying to get them to have someone come out and do some work on it, spruce it up a bit, but so far they’ve balked. I don’t know how they expect to sell it if it looks the way it does.”
He couldn’t hide the acid in his voice. “If they’re going to let it go they should just tear the place down and be done with it.”
Cynthia pursed her lips. “When did you get back?”
"Couple days ago. Staying at the inn.” He looked back to the house. “Out of curiosity, let’s say you saw a frail old man breaking into that abandoned house. You wouldn’t call the cops, would you?”
“If such a man did break in then I didn’t see it,” she said. “I’m sure I was busy doing laundry.”
He gave her smile. “It was nice talking to you again.”
“You too. I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, but if you want a nice home cooked meal our door is open.”
“Thank you. I might just take you up on that.”
She touched his arm, turned, and went back to her house. When the door closed David walked around back.
The first thing he tried was the back door, but like the front it was locked. A worn mat lay at the foot of the door. Could it really be that simple? He kicked it to the side but, no, no key. Next he checked under the three pots that now only contained soil, the plants long since rotted away. Nothing. He looked up, thinking.
And then he saw it. Right in plain sight, hanging behind the back porch light, was a key. He reached up, took it, slid it into the lock. He heard the chambers turn followed by a click. When he tried the handle it turned easily, so he pushed the door open.
The abandonment had not been kind to his home. Some of the ceiling plaster had collapsed, littering the c
ounter top in debris. The tiled floor was brown, mostly from water damage. Mouse droppings littered the corners and along the edges of the trim. He tried the light switch knowing nothing would happen. No way was there still power.
David walked into the dining room. Much the same—the carpet was covered in mold. The chandelier hung two feet lower than it should, the base having broken from the ceiling, dangling by the bare wires. Gone was the warmth he remembered, the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, just he and Lilly.
He explored the remaining rooms, his mind drifting to the past, sadness growing with each step, days long gone. Here the TV sat, his chair, the couch, watching Jeopardy! together, trying to solve the puzzle first. Lying in bed, he with a newspaper, Lilly a book.
This was to be their child’s room before the accident. The crib was to go there, the dresser there. It was one of the brightest rooms in the house, a shining beacon of joy in their lives. But it wasn’t meant to be, and in the end it had become a sewing room for Lilly.
Back in the kitchen he tugged on the stuck basement door. It finally gave, the smell of decay wafting from the darkness. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small flashlight. He hadn’t expected the place to be vacant but it never hurt to come prepared. With a press of the button the stairs came into dim view. A dry groan emanated from the old wooden stair as he took a step. He hoped the stairs would hold.
The stench was worse at the bottom of the stairs. He did a slow turn, the light cutting through the darkness. The basement was as empty as upstairs, nothing left behind. David crossed the room to a closed door. The knob turned easily, and the door opened. The stench hit him hard, and he took an involuntary step back covering his face. What in God’s name? He shined the light in.
A decaying dog lay against the far wall. Judging by the maggots squirming in its eyes, nose, and mouth it hadn’t been dead long, maybe a week. How had it gotten in here? No matter, a dead dog was the least of his concerns. Best get what he came for and get out of here.
This room had once been used to store coal for the furnace, though that was long before David and Lilly bought the place. For years it was used for storage, until David and Lilly needed a project one winter day. They decided to convert it into a pantry, so they’d worked together constructing shelves. Lilly had been the one to find the loose brick, and when she pulled it out she discovered a hollow area behind the wall.
The light danced over the bricks. He wondered…
David worked his finger into the small missing chunk on the underside of the brick and worked it out. With a little effort he managed to slide it out, then grasped the second and pulled it out, too. He shined the light into the compartment and, to his delight, saw a red cloth. He felt giddy as he pulled it out and unwrapped it: the dull and worn necklace. Or part of it. The pendant he remembered seemed to have been broken in half. Still, it was lovely.
After their confrontation with DeMarcus she’d said she’d lost it, yet now here it was. Why had she lied about it?
There was a scraping sound behind him; he turned just as the door slammed, the echo bouncing off the walls. The noise had startled him, and he dropped the flashlight and the necklace, the light going out.
“Blast it.” He reached down and felt around, his fingers only scraped stone. No way was he going to find anything without the door open.
He went to it and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. Jammed! He slammed his fist on the door. In the gloom he could hear the slithering and sucking sound of the maggots eating the dog. It grew in intensity as he continued to hammer at the door.
The chewing, the gnawing.
BANG!
The squirming, the squealing.
BANG!
Fear was taking hold. A distant familiar screech, a horror from his past.
BANG! BANG!
Getting louder, closer. Sweat dripped into his eyes, burning. Full on panic taking hold.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And then the door opened and David was staring into the concerned and beautiful face of Cynthia. “Mr. Rottingham! Are you okay?”
David put a hand to his chest, closed his eyes, calmed his breathing. He nodded vigorously. “Yes. I am now, thank you.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Th—the door. Wind must have caught it or something and it jammed.”
Cynthia directed her flashlight to the dog, her face contorting in disgust. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Wait. I dropped something. May I borrow your flashlight?”
She handed it over and he swung around. His flashlight had rolled next to the dog; no way was he going near that thing. But where did the necklace go? He scanned the ground but it was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” he muttered to himself, walking in circles around the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“A necklace. It was my wife’s. Do you see it?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “No.”
“I had it in my hand. Then the door closed, and I dropped it. It has to be here.”
Yet he couldn’t find it; it was as if it had disappeared. With a resignation he looked back at Cynthia. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t see it.”
The pitter patter of feet echoed from a pitch black section of the basement they hadn’t been in. Cynthia looked from the sound to David nervously. “We better go.”
With a frustrated sigh, he stood and moved past her. She kept the light on the stairs so he could see the steps as he ascended. A minute later they were standing in the backyard.
“It’s a good thing I saw a suspicious old man hanging around the back and decided to investigate,” she said with a smile.
“So am I.” He glanced around.
She grasped his upper arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You going to be alright?”
“I think so, yes.” He turned and looked back at the house. Strike two. First the cabin, now the house. He was going to have to come back a second time to try and recover that necklace.
With Cynthia in tow he made his way slowly to the front of the house. He gave it one final look. “A shame.”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. “A shame.”
“I must be going, Cynthia. Thank you again.”
“Of course. About dinner—”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” she said, then turned and walked to her house. David went in the other direction. He was being polite, and he knew she knew that. There would be no dinner.
* * *
“What do you mean you have no record of who owns the property?” Stavic asked into the phone. “There’s a goddamn shack on some goddamn land next to a goddamn river. There’s a little goddamn road that goes to it, too.”
“I’m sorry, Deputy, but as far as our records indicate that is public land owned by the county and not any individual person. I wish I could be more help.”
He slammed the phone down as Kinney walked up, coffee in one hand, a folder in the other. “Trouble?”
“County clerk is fucking useless.”
“There’s a lot of woods out there, Nick. Hard for anyone to keep tabs on everything that goes on in them.” He sat down, the chair squeaking as he leaned back, and set his coffee on the edge of the desk.
Stavic took the folder and looked over the paperwork. Two dead bodies, both unknowns. He’d been meaning to pay his dealer a visit after the first John Doe but hadn’t had the opportunity. While Charles Went wasn’t secretive about his dealings, he did keep a low profile. Stavic didn’t think Kinney knew about Went’s side business, so decided it play it safe. Why ruin a good thing?
“During my little excursion with Harold he mentioned some murders back in the fifties. His description of it was awfully similar to what we’re seeing now. Know anything about it?”
Kinney closed the folder, handed it back. “Nope. A bit before my time.”
“Think we have files?”
Kinn
ey exhaled an airy whistle. “Somewhere I’m sure, but don’t go asking me where. All the old case files are in boxes in the basement. Never had a reason to go digging through that stuff.”
Stavic didn’t much relish digging through old moldy and rotting boxes looking for the paperwork on two murders fifty-plus years ago. “Who was the sheriff back then? Think he could help?”
“Maybe, if he were still alive. Man died of a heart attack years ago.”
Damn. “You do realize we can have all that digitized, right?”
“Yes, but why? Haven’t had to dig through those boxes in a long time. No justification for the cost.”
Looked like he was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. He was going to need more coffee and a line before going down there.
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Kinney said as he stood, “you really should do something with your desk. Personalize it.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. A picture. A calendar. Anything.”
“Why’s that?”
“Helps you focus. Gives you a chance to look away from work for a minute and collect your thoughts. What you’re doing right now forces you to focus on one thing: work. It can drag you down.”
“I’ll go for a walk if I need a break.” Or do a line in the shitter. “Can we get back on track, please?”
“I’m telling you it helps.”
Stavic grabbed another folder, opened it, and pulled out some photos and papers. “To make things more interesting it appears the cabin is on public land. No record of who owns it—”
“It’s definitely old. Been there decades.”
“At least. Bed was stripped down—no fluids. No garbage lying around.”
“Any tire marks?”
“None, but with all the leaves coming down that’s not too surprising. I think the more likely scenario is that whoever is going to that place comes by way of the river.”
Kinney stood and took his coffee. “You might as well start digging through the old cases downstairs. A weak lead is better than no lead.”
“Want to help?”
“Not on your life,” Kinney chuckled and walked away.