by Brian Hodge
But this was different because, unlike the chickadee, the little brothers had it coming. They had killed his mother, and what he and Watson were planning now was simple revenge.
"You can carry the rope," Kip said, forcing firmness into his voice, which he didn't really feel. He coiled it into wide loops so Watson could drape it across his shoulder and let it can into another. The smell of gasoline filled the small kitchen, making Kip feel dizzy. He slid up the window and, leaning over the sink, took a few deep breaths of fresh air.
"I ain't got a whole lot of food we can bring," Watson said. "Grab that bread there and pop a few slices into the toaster. There's still some peanut butter and jelly left over from breakfast, right?"
Kip nodded. After placing the coiled rope on the table, he took out four slices of bread and dropped two into the toaster slots.
Watson finished filling the five-gallon can and screwed the cap back onto the full one. Then he opened the one-gallon can and poured what little remained into that.
"Maybe we could use that money you've got left 'n top this can off," Watson said. He held up the one-gallon can and gave it a quick shake. "This ain't more'n half full, and I've got a feeling we're gonna need more, not less."
"I can carry the five-gallon, so maybe you can carry the one-gallon can on your belt or something, so your hands will be free. We can figure it all out after lunch," Kip said.
The two slices of toast popped. Kip took them and smeared them with globs of peanut butter and grape jelly. He put another two pieces of bread into the toaster while Watson got the almost-empty jug of milk from the refrigerator and poured them each a glass. They both leaned against the counter, staring at their pile of equipment as they ate. Neither one of them bothered to talk.
After a second round of toast and a glass of water because the milk was gone, Watson looked at Kip and smiled grimly. "Well, if we're gonna do it, let's go. The longer we wait, the more reasons we might come up against doin' it."
"I suppose so," Kip said. He emptied his glass and put it into the sink. "You know, I was thinking about what you said earlier, about how the little brothers might not like fire. I was wondering if maybe we should have torches as well as flashlights when we go in. We might need something like that to keep them away if there's really a lot of them."
Watson nodded. "Not a bad idea, but for that, we'll need even more gasoline than what we got. Tell you what. We can make the torches now, 'n then I'll go down town to the gas station 'n fill the one-gallon while you carry some of this stuff out to the Indian Caves. I can meet you there with the rest of the stuff."
It took them a while to fashion two torches using some old sheets Watson had saved. They wrapped the sheets into big balls held in place by wire on the ends of two thick sticks. They left them soaking in gasoline while they made their final preparations.
The day was warm, so rather than wear his jacket, Kip tied it loosely around his waist and draped the canteen over his shoulder. From their supplies on the table, he took ten flares, one set of extra batteries, and a handful of shotgun shells and slid them into the side pouches of the backpack. He tied one of the torches—a spare because he intended to use a flashlight—where the bedroll should have gone, and put the five-gallon can into the main compartment. He grunted, surprised by the weight when he slung the whole thing onto his back.
After adjusting the pack so it rode comfortably, at least as comfortably as such an old-fashioned rig could ride, he strapped Marty's hunting knife to his belt and took one of the new flashlights and slid it into his back pocket. Watson opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a ball of string and handed it to Kip. Using some of the wire they had used for the torches, Kip quickly fashioned a little roller that he clipped onto his belt. He gave the string a couple of test pulls, pleased when it unwound smoothly behind him. Finally, feeling as ready as he'd ever be, he walked over to the door.
"Take these, too... just in case," Watson said as he tucked a small box of wooden matches into one of the side pouches. "They ain't the safety kind. They'll strike on anything, so be careful."
"Thanks," Kip said, feeling as though he looked like a poverty-stricken traveling salesman. His equipment clanked and sloshed with every step.
"I'll be needin' that money," Watson said. "For the gasoline."
"Oh, yeah. Sure," Kip said as he dug into his jeans pocket for the wad of bills. He handed them to Watson.
"After I get the gas, I'll come back for the torches and the rest of my stuff," Watson said.
As soon as the money was back in his hand, though, Watson began thinking—once again—about how easy it would be to stop by the liquor store and pick up a pint of whiskey. To hell with the kid and his half-assed idea of going up against the untcigahunk. Now that he was leaving, good riddance. Let him wander out to the Indian Caves and wait... wait out there as long as he wanted or until the untcigahunk came and got him.
"See you in about an hour then," Kip said, glancing at Watson before going outside. Watson nodded. The door swung shut behind him with a loud bang.
Watson went to the kitchen window and watched as Kip headed off into the woods. Then he grabbed the five-gallon can by the handle and went out to his truck. Even as he slid in behind the steering wheel and put the key into the ignition, he knew that, no matter how much his body cried out for a drink, there was something else—something much stronger—pushing him to finish what he had started with Kip.
"Come hell or high water," he muttered to his reflection in the rearview mirror as he started up the truck. After a moment, he slammed the shift into gear. Looking over his right shoulder, he backed down to the road, turned around, and headed into town.
3
It was a little before nine o'clock in the morning, and Bill was seated at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the cold coffee on the bottom of his cup. On the placemat in front of him was a half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal and an English muffin with just one small bite out of it. Every thirty seconds or so, he would check his watch, glance at the phone, and heave a deep sigh.
At six o'clock that morning, he had been on the phone, talking to Parkman. The police chief had been genuinely surprised to learn that Kip hadn't shown up yet. In his experience, so he told Bill, when a kid ran away from home, sometime during the night—in the tough cases, maybe not until early in the morning—the kid would get hungry and cold and lonely, and he'd turn up at home, shivering and saying how sorry he was. If the parents had been so upset that they actually expressed joy at seeing the kid, then running away had accomplished what it was supposed to accomplish; it had gotten the kid the attention he had wanted all along... at least for a little while.
"Look, Harry, this isn't some jerk with a prank phone call," Bill had said, trying his best to keep his temper from flaring. "Kip's never done anything like this before. None of his friends have heard from him or seen him. I'm really afraid something's happened."
Parkman hadn't sounded pleased to be awakened so early, and he had repeated to Bill what he had told him yesterday—that he couldn't file a missing persons report until Kip had been missing for twenty-four hours. That was the way it worked.
"For Christ's sake, Harry. I'm not asking you for anything I wouldn't do for you if you asked me," Bill had shouted into the phone.
He couldn't help but remember that Parkman had been the first one on the scene at the house site five years ago. He and Parkman both knew that's what had drawn them together and deepened their friendship over the last five years. And friends never owed friends favors. Bill hated feeling angry at Parkman, but he just couldn't believe the cop wasn't jumping into this with both feet.
Why's he being so damned... distant? So cold?
"And I'm telling you I have to follow procedure," Parkman had said. "Look, Bill. I was up 'til after three o'clock this morning investigating a car accident out on the Limington Road, and I—"
"What happened?" Bill had asked. "Was anyone hurt?"
Maybe, Bill had thought, a friend of
Parkman's had been hurt... or killed! Still, this was Kip they were talking about!
"Car was totaled. The driver's down at Maine Med. Yeah, you know her. It was Suzie LaBlanc."
Oh, Christ! Bill had thought, freezing at the mention of Suzie's name. Immediately, he had wondered if somehow Woody had been involved.
"She must've been doing sixty-five or seventy on a back road," Parkman had said "She didn't quite make the turn by the Limington Congregational Church. Her car's totaled, and she's damned lucky she wasn't killed. Lucky thing she was wearing her seatbelt."
"Yeah. Lucky for her," Bill had said. "But listen, Harry. How many times have I helped you out? Huh? Think about all the times you've asked me for legal advice, and I never pulled this 'following procedure' bullshit on you? How many times?"
"Plenty," Parkman had said softly.
"Any time you had legal problems, I'd give you advice without charging. I can remember a few times I even told you something from the courthouse that maybe should have remained confidential. I never squawked about procedure. All I'm asking you to do is get some men together and start a search party."
Parkman had then let out a loud groan. As the pause lengthened, Bill had begun to think that—at last—he had broken through to him. "Yeah, well," Parkman had said gruffly, "I've had less than two hours sleep. I ain't shaved yet. Christ, I haven't had time to wipe my ass." He sighed loudly. "I've got to follow up on this accident first. But get off my back, all right? I promise by noon today there'll be at least twenty men out there, beating the brush. All right? I'll give you a call when we're getting organized."
That had been nearly three hours ago, and still—no phone call. Bill was fuming as he glanced at his watch. He had wanted some action now, not five... not three... not even one hour from now.
Now!
He got up and rinsed the remains of his Cheerios down the drain, tossed the muffin into the garbage, then gave the kitchen floor a quick sweep. The nervous energy continued to build up inside him, making him want either to scream until his throat was raw or start slamming and throwing things until the house was a total shambles. When Lori had been killed, he'd had a tough time handling it, but that had been real—too real. He had known what had happened and how to deal with it. But this—with Kip missing—was in many ways much worse simply because he didn't know what had happened. And not knowing gave him no fucking clue how to handle it.
Was Kip kidnapped—or killed?
Maybe Woody, scum of the earth as he that he was, had decided to take a little revenge on Bill and his family.
Bill wondered if Woody might have waited until he saw his chance and nabbed Kip. Anyone who could blind-side a cop and put him into the hospital could easily do something like that. As a lawyer, Bill had seen plenty of situations he just couldn't fathom. Maybe Kip's broken, battered body was lying somewhere in the woods wherever Woody had disposed of it. Even now, what if flies were crawling into Kip's nose and eyes, and laying their eggs?
Or maybe he had an accident.
Maybe he had been riding his bike home from a friend's house and had ricocheted off the bumper of a speeding car. Hit and run. Bill had also seen plenty of cases like that. Too scared of having hurt or killed the person, afraid of a lawsuit or prison, the driver would in the heat of the moment decide to drive away, leaving the person dead or dying in the ditch. Same flies laying the same eggs in the nose and eyes.
Or maybe Kip had run away, like Marty had suggested at breakfast.
The idea seemed a little far-fetched, but it certainly was not out of the question. Bill was painfully aware of how badly Marty treated his little brother. Maybe Kip had finally had enough. That certainly was what Parkman seemed to think. So far, at least, Parkman wasn't ready to put out an A.P.B. for Woody or a Camaro with a dented fender.
The worst thing is just not knowing.
Bill slammed the broom back into place beside the refrigerator and walked into the living room. At the foot of the stairs, he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Hey! Mart!"
At first, there was no answer from upstairs, but after a second and third yell, Bill heard a groggy, muffled response. It was nothing intelligible, just a faint sign of life from Marty's bedroom.
"Mart! I want you to stick around the house today for a bit. Just while I'm gone. Okay?"
The only response he heard back was a throaty growl.
"I'm gonna take a spin through town and look for Kip—"
"He's not back yet?" Marty sounded more awake now, and maybe a bit panicky.
"No. Not yet, anyway. I want to drop by Aaron's and Joey's houses. See if they've heard anything from him. Maybe they can give me some idea where to start looking. I'm expecting an important call from Parkman, and I want you here to take it, all right?"
No answer.
"All right?"
"Uh—yeah... all right. How long you gonna be?" A dull thump sounded as Marty's feet hit the floor.
"Not too long," Bill yelled as he scooped his car keys from the dish by the phone. "I'll be back in half an hour. Make sure you get that call if it comes. And don't forget to take your medicine."
"Yeah... yeah," Marty replied.
Bill was at the door, about to leave, when the phone rang. He practically dove over the table and snatched up the receiver.
"Hello," he said breathlessly.
"Uh...hi," said a woman's voice. "Were you just sitting there waiting for my call?"
It took Bill a moment or two to recognize Gail's voice.
"Oh, shit," he muttered.
There was a short pause at the end of the line, and then Gail said softly, "Well, you certainly know how to make a woman feel wanted."
Embarrassed, Bill cleared his throat. "I didn't mean shit, it's you. I meant, shit, I forgot about our date last night."
"Yes, you did," Gail said tentatively.
Bill sensed her discomfort and wanted to let her know he had a good reason to forget. At the same time, he didn't want her to be worried, especially after what had happened to Barkley the other night. No sense getting her all worked up.
"Look, Gail, I'm really sorry I didn't call. It totally slipped my mind." He glanced nervously at his watch, aware that every second on the phone meant Parkman—maybe Kip—might be trying to call and getting a busy signal. "Something really important's come up. I can't talk about it right now. I'll explain later."
"So I don't need to worry about changing my perfume or anything?" Gail said with a light snicker.
"Absolutely not," Bill said. "I'll call you this evening. I promise. I've really got to go."
"Are you sure you're okay?" Gail's voice sounded tight.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Bill replied quickly. "I'll call you later, 'kay?" He hung up without waiting for a response. Before leaving the house, he considered calling Parkman once more to make sure he hadn't tried to call in the short time he was on the phone with Gail, but he decided he was wasting time and ran out to the car.
Marty was halfway down the stairs when the back door slammed shut and the car started up. The gnawing sensation in his stomach felt like hunger, but as he held his arm up and inspected the thick wad of bandage, he wondered what had made such terrible cuts on his arm.
Maybe, he thought, even as he tried to push the thought aside, there's something really dangerous out at the Indian Caves.
He tried not to think about it but couldn't stop himself.
And what if Kip's out there?
He poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and started eating, but the gnawing in his stomach only got worse.
4
It hadn't been half an hour—it hadn't even been fifteen minutes—since Kip arrived at the Indian Caves, but he felt as though he had been waiting a couple of hours for Watson to show up. He didn't believe his watch when he looked at it and saw it was only a little after ten o'clock.
The hike through the woods had been slow because of all the stuff he was carrying, and the more he thought about it, the madder he got at Watson
for not offering to bring more when he came. It was a wonder he had made it into the woods with all of his camping gear the day before, but that had all been lightweight, modern stuff. Watson's antique backpack banged against his back with every step. The metal edge of the gas can jabbed through the thick material into his skin, and the canvas straps cut like razors into his shoulders. His jacket flapped around his knees, but that didn't help, either. By the time he got to the Indian Caves, he was sweaty and angry.
While he waited for Watson, he considered going crossing the stream to his former campsite just to convince himself the place had really been destroyed. Since yesterday afternoon, just about everything had taken on the surreal overcast of a dream, and he wondered if he imagined finding his tent and sleeping bag in a shambles. But as he sat in the clearing by the cave, clutching Marty's hunting knife in his right hand, he noticed a stray fluff of goose down caught in the brush by the side of the path. That was all the evidence he needed.
He realized, too, that he'd been stewing so much about his campsite because he didn't want to think about what he and Watson planned to do. The open, black V of the cave entrance seemed almost to taunt him, like a mouth that could have warned him but, instead, was about to swallow him whole. He tried not to look at it, but his gaze kept wandering back mostly to make sure none of those things came out to attack him.
His grip on the knife got slippery with sweat, and he switched it to his left hand while he wiped his right hand on his pants leg. He tried not to think about how much his hands were shaking. He tried not to think at all.