Gone The Next

by Ben Rehder

  Eventually, the trees thinned a bit and I began to see the glow coming from Pierce’s windows, about thirty or forty yards away. I took a few more steps, right to the edge of the clearing that surrounded the house, and I stopped. Removed the NVGs. Stood totally still for ten solid minutes.

  Nothing.

  No dog lunging at me. No sounds except for some crickets and a screech owl. No movement in any of the windows. Pierce’s white Ford F150 was parked out front, but I didn’t see the Jetta or any other vehicles.

  Fortunately, none of the exterior lights were on — not even a porch light. That was good, because it meant I could walk right up to the house. And it was bad, because it meant I could walk right up to the house. Yeah, I’ll admit I was nervous. Not only was I trespassing, I was armed, and that was not a good combination for a guy on probation. Not that I was expecting or wanting a confrontation. Just the opposite. I was here to sneak up and install a tap on Brian Pierce’s phone. Illegal as hell, and nothing I learned would be admissible, but if I was able to discover Tracy Turner’s whereabouts, I didn’t care if I did it illegally or not.

  I waited another ten minutes. Still nothing, although I did hear two cars pass on Thomas Springs. Time to get closer.

  The front of the house faced south. I approached up a slight slope from the west side, where two windows were lit and one was dark. Could be somebody in that window watching me, or aiming a shotgun, but it was a chance I had to take. I didn’t see the exterior telephone box mounted anywhere on this side of the house, but I wanted to get closer anyway, because if there were people inside, it would be good to know where they were.

  Ten more minutes. That’s how long I took to cover the distance. When I was within five yards of the house, I was far enough up the gentle slope that I could begin to see into one of the windows. Saw a dresser, so I knew it was a bedroom. A few steps closer and I saw the bed. Nobody in it. Nobody anywhere in the room. The door into the room was closed. But now I could hear something. Murmuring. A conversation from somewhere inside the house.

  I went to my left, toward the rear of the house. Past the darkened window. Now I could see that curtains were drawn across it, with no light showing around the edges. Relief. It was probably a bedroom, too. If there were people in there, perhaps lying awake, they wouldn’t see my form passing across the window.

  I reached the corner at the rear of the house and peeked around it. There was enough stray light from the windows in back that I could see a large patio with four wrought-iron chairs encircling a limestone fire pit. A good place to kick back with friends and enjoy a crisp winter evening, telling stories around a crackling fire. But right now, it looked bleak and desolate and sort of sad in the darkness.

  My Nikes were quiet on the concrete as I edged past the first rear window, which also had curtains drawn. After twenty more feet I could see through the three small ascending windows built into the back door. I was looking up a hallway which led past the two bedrooms on the right. There were also two open doorways on the left — more bedrooms, or more likely a bedroom and a bathroom. Couldn’t see into them from here. No light coming from those rooms either. It appeared that the hallway fed into the living room at the front of the house. I could see the back of a couch and, beyond it, a bookshelf against a wall, but I wasn’t willing to get any closer to the back door for a better view. Nothing moved, but the murmuring was louder. Sounded like two men talking, maybe sitting in the living room, just out of sight from my vantage point.

  I continued in a clockwise fashion around the other rear corner of the house, and now proceeded slowly along the east-facing exterior wall, past windows with more drawn curtains.

  Slowly. Carefully. Toward the front of the house.

  And now I was approaching a lighted window that likely looked into the living room. I stopped beside the window, my back to the wall. The conversation I’d been hearing was at its loudest yet, although I still couldn’t make out any specific words.

  Was it The Guy? Talking to Brian Pierce?

  Only one way to find out. Go ahead and peek. I knew that with the lights on inside, they wouldn’t be able to see me outside. The glare on the inside of the pane would prevent it. Still, I’d feel obvious and vulnerable.

  But I did it.

  I leaned ever so slowly past the edge of the window, and the room slowly came into view. First I saw that same bookcase against the front wall. Leaned a little farther and saw a loveseat against the far wall of the room.

  Then I saw the TV viewing area — two easy chairs facing a flat-screen mounted on the wall. The TV was tuned to a talk show of some sort. Not like a Letterman or Leno type of talk show, but more of a PBS one-on-one type of show — host and guest, around a table, with no band, no sidekick, no audience, no elaborate set. That was the conversation I’d been hearing.

  The Guy was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Erica Kerwick or Tracy Turner.

  But Brian Pierce was there, stretched out on the floor between the chairs.

  Well, I think it was him. It was hard to tell, because a big piece of his face was missing, and what was left was covered with blood.

  34

  Mia didn’t know what to say at first. That much was obvious. It was the next morning. I hadn’t slept at all, wondering if I’d made the right decision. Still didn’t know.

  “So he was shot?” Mia finally said.

  We were at my apartment, one of us on either end of the couch.

  “Guess so. It was hard to tell.”

  “You didn’t go inside?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “What if he was still alive?”

  “He wasn’t. Not a chance. I can guarantee that.”

  She took a deep breath. I don’t blame her. I had just made her an accomplice to a crime. Failure to report a violent death was probably a felony.

  She said, “I’m just...I don’t...” At a loss for words.

  “Would you rather I hadn’t told you?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “No.” She shook her head. “No. I’m glad you did. We’re partners. Even though it was pretty shitty of you to go over there without me.”

  “Would you have gone with me?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have tried to talk me out of it?”

  “Of course I would have. That was the whole point of turning it over to the cops. That’s what they do. They’re the pros. And now you might have contaminated the crime scene.”

  I had already thought about that, obviously. Not just last night, sitting in my apartment, pondering it for hours, but there at Pierce’s window, when I’d had to make an immediate decision. It wasn’t an easy choice. Report it, or get the hell out of there and don’t look back? It had occurred to me pretty quickly that if I reported it, I would be the number one suspect. So, after several long minutes frozen at that window, I’d chosen option number two.

  I’d left, and not nearly as slowly and quietly as I’d arrived. Back through the trees, not bothering with the NVGs this time. Hoisted myself over the fence, because it was faster than crawling under, and snagged my jeans on a barb. Hustled along the shoulder of Thomas Springs Road, lying flat in the tall grass when one solitary vehicle passed by. And finally made it back to the Circle Country Club parking lot, where I tried to appear casual as I walked to the van, and when I was pulling out, I noticed a guy leaning against a truck, smoking a cigarette, watching me leave. Crap. A witness. I’d told Mia all of this.

  “This is really bad, Roy,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Did you touch anything? Any windows?”

  “No.”

  “You might’ve left footprints.”

  “The ground seemed pretty dry, but yeah, it’s a possibility. That’s why I ditched my shoes.”

  I’d thrown them in a dumpster behind a strip center, but she didn’t ask.

  “Who would’ve shot him. And why?”

  “No way of knowing. Maybe Erica Kerwick. Or The Guy. Or he could’ve
shot himself, for all we know.”

  “Did you see a gun on the floor?”

  “No, but it could’ve been under him or just hidden from view behind one of the chairs.”

  “Are you going to report it?”

  “I can’t, Mia. Think how it would look. Ruelas would say, ‘What were you doing over there? You thought Pierce was a child abductor. Considering your history, maybe you thought you’d dish out a little justice on your own?’”

  “You could call it in anonymously.”

  “I’m not sure I could — not in a way that they couldn’t eventually trace back to me. I think it’s best if I do exactly what I would have done if I’d never gone over there.”

  “Which means do nothing.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She was shaking her head. “Roy, Roy, Roy.”

  “I know.”

  “You never should have gone over there.”

  “Hindsight.”

  “Hindsight, hell. You should’ve known that before you went. Your judgment really sucks.”

  I sat there quietly for a beat or two, wondering how she’d respond to what I was about to say. “I’m in this thing, Mia. I think I’ve made that obvious by now. Tracy Turner was at Brian Pierce’s house, and Erica Kerwick knew it. She was part of it, whatever it was. Now Pierce is dead, Tracy is still missing, and neither of the Hanrahans will talk to the police. Meanwhile, Ruelas and his fellow Keystone Kops can’t seem to uncover clue number one. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.”

  “Roy...”

  “I’m not giving up, Mia. I’ve made up my mind. Call me smug, cocky, or arrogant if you want, but I’m gonna figure it out. I’m close already, I know it. So everything else has to go on the back burner until I’m done, it’s that simple. I realize that’s not what you want to hear from a brand-new partner, but there it is. I don’t expect you to help me. I’m not asking you to help me. In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t get involved.”

  “Then why did you call me and tell me what you did last night?”

  “I don’t even know. Seemed like I should tell somebody. You yourself just said my judgment sucks.”

  She got up off the couch and walked over to the sliding glass door that opened onto my patio. I knew she was thinking things through — maybe even wondering if she should kill this partnership right now.

  Then I heard her giggle. Didn’t expect that. Apparently she’d just remembered something amusing.

  “What?”

  She said, “I almost forgot, because you kind of distracted me with all this, you know?”

  “What?” I said again.

  She turned around, grinning, like we were about to share a joke. “Ruelas asked me out.”

  I think I literally flinched, just a little. “He — really?”

  “Called me up and asked if I wanted to meet for drinks.”

  “When was this?” She was backlit from the sun shining in through the glass door, so I held my hand up to block the light and get a better look at her expression.

  “Late yesterday afternoon.”

  I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

  “What did you say?”

  “Really? You can’t guess?”

  “You said no.”

  “Of course I said no, you dork. Not my type at all.”

  “What is your type?”

  “Well, I’m not totally sure, but he isn’t it.”

  “Good-looking guy. Makes a good living.”

  Why was I listing that jerk’s attributes? Like I was daring her to go out with him?

  She said, “My point in telling you is that I agree that he’s not very focused on this case. What kind of detective tries to hook up with a witness when he’s working a big case? I guess I’m a witness. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re even more of a witness.”

  “I am. I wonder when he’ll ask me out.”

  “Anyway, it just seems like he’s crossing a line. Kind of sleazy.”

  “There might even be a policy against it.”

  “I didn’t think about that.”

  She came back to the couch and sat down. Took another long breath. Finally said, “Do you always get into fixes like this? Should I expect this on a regular basis?”

  “Just trying to keep life interesting.”

  “Yeah, great. So what’s our next step?”

  “Are you saying you’re in this with me?”

  “Well, damn, Roy, I don’t have much choice. What kind of partner would I be if I bailed every time things got messy? So what’s our next step?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  Mia remained on the couch while I called Jessica on my cell phone. Considering how things had progressed the last time I’d seen Jessica, I thought about going into the other room to make the call, but that seemed sort of juvenile.

  She answered by saying, “Hey, there.”

  I said, “How’s it going?”

  “Working right now, but it’s slow. I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Same here.”

  “You’ve been thinking about you?”

  “Exactly. I find myself very interesting.”

  Maybe I had a weird tone in my voice, but Mia was giving me a strange look, along with a raised eyebrow. I turned the other way.

  Jessica said, “I’m glad you called.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t?”

  “I knew you would.”

  “We should get together soon.”

  “I’d like that. When?”

  “This weekend?”

  “Sounds good. I’m off on Saturday and don’t have to work until two on Sunday.”

  “Excellent. In the meantime...”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to ask a favor.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You might not even be able to help, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “This must be some favor. Spit it out, dude.”

  “Do you happen to have a phone number for Patrick Hanrahan?”

  I started with a text:

  I saw Tracy at Pierce’s house one week ago today.

  Then we waited a few minutes.

  “Think he’ll respond?” Mia asked.

  “I wouldn’t. At least not yet.”

  And he didn’t, not after ten full minutes. So I sent a second one:

  I saw Erica at Pierce’s house five days ago.

  More waiting.

  “So what’s the deal with this Jessica?” Mia asked. “You getting serious?” Needling me, and making no effort to conceal it.

  “Well, she’s definitely interesting. I really like her a lot. But here’s the thing. The other night, we started to get a little bit intimate, and I don’t want to share all the details, but it turns out she’s a dude.”

  Mia simply shook her head slowly. She had known a line of bullshit was coming. “Always deflecting,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “Absolutely. When you don’t want to share, you turn it into a joke.”

  “You weren’t sort of joking when you asked? Giving me a subtle jab?”

  I looked down at my phone. Still no reply. So I sent a third one:

  Three days ago, I was attacked at Pierce’s place.

  Then a fourth one:

  A man abducted me, interrogated me, then let me go.

  I figured Hanrahan was getting curious by now. Or maybe he wasn’t, depending on whether he already knew any of this stuff.

  “Okay, yeah, I apologize,” Mia said. “I was teasing you a little.”

  “She’s very nice,” I said. “I like her.”

  “Wow. This is real progress.”

  “Teasing again?”

  “You’re right, I am. It’s hard not to.”

  “Oh, you can tease me all you want. I have no problem with it.”

  “Because it gives you justification to deflect.”

  “What are you, a therapist now?”
/>   “Just a concerned friend.”

  “Did I say something at some point that makes you dislike Jessica?”

  “No, of course not. I’ve never even met her.”

  “She actually reminds me of you, you know.”

  “Oh, really? That’s interesting. In what ways?”

  “Well, like you, she has a burning passion for her collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. She is also a devotee of Romanian folk dance. Oops. I’m deflecting again, aren’t I?”

  “At least it’s always amusing, Roy.”

  “Thank you. But I do appreciate your concern for my welfare, so I will do my best to give you an honest answer. Bottom line, I like Jessica because she is intelligent, interesting, and drop-dead gorgeous. She also has a great sense of humor.”

  Mia was grinning. It was a cat-that-ate-the-canary type of grin. “Those are the ways she reminds you of me?”

  “Ha. I didn’t necessarily say that.”

  “Well, if she — ”

  My phone chimed. An incoming text from Hanrahan’s number.

  “He’s asking, ‘Who is this?’”

  “You have to be straight-up with him, right?”

  “Yep.”

  I wrote: My name is Roy Ballard. We need to talk.

  He replied: Are you a cop?

  No, I’m a fraud investigator. I saw these things while investigating Pierce.

  He didn’t respond for several minutes. Long enough for him to Google my name and learn some things — not just about my own experiences with abduction, but about my involvement as a witness in a handful of lawsuits. Wouldn’t take Hanrahan long to see that there really was a guy named Roy Ballard who investigated insurance fraud. After that, he’d have to decide whether or not to believe I was actually that Roy Ballard. It would be tempting for him to suspect that I was an enterprising reporter from some tabloid journal or television show.