The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set

by Jeremy Peterson

  “Tell us about that day,” Trent said.

  “We were up in that tree house. I was—”

  “You mean the tree house in Taggard’s orchard?” Trent interrupted.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. We weren’t hurting anyone or stealing nothing. We were just gonna’ film a few minutes. Just me—or my character—kicking back, reading some dirty magazines. It was gonna’ have this voiceover that was supposed to be me as an adult. It was good.” He chuckled at the memory, “Leo wrote this great little script. It would’a been awesome.”

  “When was this exactly?” Trent asked.

  “It was the day Peter Taylor almost killed those two kids from New Mexico. The day he died in that same tree house.”

  “Are you sure?” Trent asked.

  “I’ll never forget. We probably only missed him by an hour. We were there setting up cameras, trying to get the right angles, lighting, sound, and shading. I didn’t understand all that technical stuff too well. That was Leo’s area of expertise.”

  “That’s crazy,” Jill said. “That could have been real bad, had you still been there.”

  Kevin only nodded, clearly having thought the same thing.

  Trent asked, “So, did you film anything that day?”

  “No. I mean, we took some test shots, but that movie never even got made. After that day, the tree house was a freaking crime scene. Our production went on hold for weeks, and then Leo sort of disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? What do you mean?” Trent asked.

  “I mean, Leo just dipped out on me. Stopped returning my calls, and when he did answer me, it was painfully obvious that he didn’t want to talk. I’d see him in school when he bothered to show up, but even then, it wasn’t the same. I assumed it was due mostly to his movie—which was the only thing he truly loved—being put on hold.”

  Kevin’s mother returned with coffee all around.

  “Thank you ma’am.”

  “Yes,” Jill said, “this really hit’s the spot.”

  Kevin’s mother smiled curtly. “It’s a good day for coffee, that’s for sure.”

  “That it is,” Trent said. “I believe the storm is gonna’ let up soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  Trent took another sip of his coffee, and then turned back to Kevin. “So you had some cameras set up in the tree house that day?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, we set ‘em up and took some test shots. The light was all fu—messed up.” He glanced sheepishly at his mother who stared back with a disappointed look on her face. He continued, “It’s been awhile, but I remember Leo taking the test shots. And then I remember he wasn’t very happy with them, so we we’re gonna’ take a lunch break and try again that afternoon, after the sun moved behind those trees. I remember because it was a Sunday and we had school the next day.”

  Jill joined in. “That was a Sunday, wasn’t it? That whole week was crazy after they found that dead guy.”

  Trent ignored her and focused on Kevin who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Jill. “So after lunch, you went back to the tree house?”

  Kevin reluctantly turned his attention from the girl to look at the Deputy as he contemplated the question. “We tried to go back, but you guys were already there. The cops, I mean.”

  “Right,” Trent said. “I need you to think really hard on this one … did you guys leave any cameras in the tree house when you left for lunch?”

  “No way. Leo wouldn’t—I mean, I don’t think so.”

  “Think, Kevin,” Jill said.

  Kevin looked at her and nodded. “Okay, I’m thinking. I’m sorry, I’m not sure. I never really thought about it, and Leo never mentioned it.”

  “But you didn’t talk much with Leo after that day?” Jill asked. “You said as much yourself.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t.”

  The Deputy was deep in thought and Jill wanted desperately to make that look of pain disappear from his face. Meanwhile, Kevin saw the same desperation on Jill’s face and he marveled at his luck. The prettiest girl in school—right here in his living room.

  Finally, the Deputy focused and looked into Kevin’s eyes. Kevin shrunk into his seat. “You were replaced? In the movie?”

  “Uh, yeah. Steve played my part … well, it wasn’t my part anymore. The character changed completely. Our script was a good coming-of-age story with heart. That movie, that was just a horror movie, pure Eli Roth stuff. A Blair Witch wannabe.”

  “What are you, about five foot eight?” Trent asked.

  “And three quarters,” Kevin shot a glance at Jill, before returning his glare to the Deputy. “Why?”

  “The kid they replaced you with … what was his name?”

  “Steven Avery,” Jill offered.

  “Right. Steve, yeah. He played basketball, right?”

  “And baseball. Cleanup hitter,” Jill said, “or something like that.”

  “Who cares about him?” Kevin said.

  “Why did Leo give him your job?”

  “I have no freaking’ idea. I wish I did.”

  “But he was a big kid, right?”

  “Yes! He was taller than me. A lot taller than me. What the hell—”

  “Listen,” Trent said, interrupting Kevin. “I’m sorry, but I need to go. Jill, I need you to wait here.”

  “But why? What is it?”

  Trent looked to Kevin’s mother, “Can you look after Jill for me. I will be back.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I don’t need ‘looking after’. I’m seventeen, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Jill, please,” Trent said.

  “If you don’t want me around, then I’ll just walk home. I don’t need a baby sitter.”

  Trent gently grabbed her arm, just above the elbow. He pulled her close and spoke softly, “You need to relax. You’ve been a big help so far, and I’m sure you’ll be a big help again. But right now, I need you here. I have to know where you’ll be, and that you’ll be safe.”

  “Take me with you then,” she pleaded.

  “I can’t. Not for this. But I will be back for you because I’ll need you if I am to finish this.”

  Jill bit the corner of her mouth, the first time showing signs of fear. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I have an idea.”

  “What?” she pleaded.

  “Not yet, kid. But that’s why I need to go. I need to see if this is more than a hunch. Okay?”

  Reluctantly, Jill nodded.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Trent had watched and re-watched Leo’s final scene, something nagged at him. He couldn’t place it, no matter how hard he tried. In fact, the more he pressed, the farther it seemed to slip back into the recesses of his mind. He had started to doubt that it was ever there at all. But now, he was certain.

  Trent was the first person on the scene the day Peter Taylor had died. He found two teenagers unconscious on the killer’s kitchen floor. A girl in the arms of a young boy, her head split open along the hairline. They lay in a pool of blood that would have looked more at home in a slaughterhouse than a kitchen. It was a bad scene. Trent had thought that they were both going to die. They didn’t, and the last he heard, they were doing okay.

  Trent sat with the two kids before the paramedics arrived. The girl was unconscious, but the boy came and went, and Trent did his best to comfort him. He was a good kid. When the paramedics arrived, Trent followed a trail of blood through the man’s house, out the front door, and across the street into the woods. The tracks led to an old trail, which Trent followed until he came to a tree house.

  Trent hated to think of that day. He knew something terrible had happened, and he suspected that it was something far worse than he could explain. But he was thinking of that day now. Climbing the steps to that tree house, opening the door, Peter Taylor dead, lying twisted and broken like he had been run over by a tractor-trailer. That wasn’t Steve Avery in Leo’s movie; it was Peter
Taylor.

  The crime scene photos would prove it—at least to him—and he planned to see them now. They were in the courthouse, along with Jerry. Trent intended to grab the photos and release Jerry when he got there.

  The deputy bypassed the snow buried parking lot, choosing instead to park on the street. He stepped out of the cruiser and stared into the icy wind. Something hurled through the snowy air towards him. He batted it away.

  Just paper, he thought.

  Before he could duck, another piece fluttered towards him. It brushed his cheek, leaving a small paper cut just below his eye. He cursed and turned his back to the courthouse. The paper that cut him stuck to the passenger side of the cruiser. It wasn’t paper, after all; it was a photograph. A crime scene photograph.

  Trent stepped towards it, shielding his face from the snow. It was a crime scene photo from Chaplin Hills’ first (and only) serial killer, Peter Taylor. Peter Taylor’s death scene in the tree house to be exact. Trent reached for the photo, but another gust of wind peeled it from the snowy car window and sent it flying into the white haze. Trent tried to watch it, but in seconds, the picture disappeared into the void.

  “Sonofabitch!” Trent trudged his way through the knee-high snow as fast as he could towards the courthouse entrance.

  He swung open the door and blew in like the swirling snow behind him. It was colder than it should have been, and Trent sensed it immediately. He could hear the furnace running, but it couldn’t keep up.

  Storm must have blown a window in, he surmised.

  “Hello!” he called.

  There was no answer.

  He ran for the stairs leading to the basement, finding no other living soul on the main floor.

  He took the stairs two at a time, calling Jerry’s name.

  Again, no answer.

  Loose paper littered the hallway leading to the holding cell. Trent slowed his pace and unlocked the service pistol on his hip. He noticed wet boot prints heading in the opposite direction amongst the scattered trash on the floor.

  “Jerry!” This time, he didn’t wait for a response and raced full speed into the Deuel County holding cell.

  At this point, Trent understood that Jerry wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t expect what he saw. Someone (or something) had ripped the metal door from its hinges and it lay lopsided against the cell bars. The desk, now missing one leg, lay upside down amongst a landslide of folders and papers. Overturned coffee cups. Smashed computer monitors.

  But no sign of Jerry.

  “What the hell …”

  There would be more photos from the Peter Taylor file, like the one that blew away in the storm, but he didn’t think he would find them in this mess.

  Jerry wouldn’t have done this, Trent thought.

  But if it wasn’t Jerry, then who? And what the hell happened to Jerry?

  Trent left the courthouse, noticing that no other office seemed disturbed. Outside, Trent looked for tracks, but it was useless. The only tracks he saw were his own, and even they were disappearing under the fresh snow.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his cruiser, the heater blaring, he contemplated his next move. He wanted to go to Sheriff Virgil’s house. He might have copies of the Taylor file in his records. But, more importantly, Trent could use his counsel. He shook his head. Not yet. Jerry was out there somewhere and he had to make sure the man was okay.

  Since his return home to Chaplin Hills from Vietnam, Jerry has lived just outside of town in the house his great grandfather built. The house, like the man who lived there, is falling to pieces.

  Trent turned onto Main Street, which became Highway 30 once you passed city limits. About a quarter mile outside of town, on the Highway, is where Jerry’s house sits.

  Main Street was deserted as it had been all day. Trent couldn’t imagine Jerry making it all the way home in this weather, and was about to abandon his mission when he noticed a figure struggling through the snow on the side of the road.

  Trent’s headlights barely cut through the blowing snow, leaving the figure to look like a zombie under a strobe light. Trent briefly thought of Jerry’s story about the figure that darted in front of his car, but he dismissed that thought almost as quickly as it arrived.

  It wasn’t Jerry’s mysterious boogeyman in the street: it was Jerry. Trent popped on his overhead lights, and with a quick blast of his siren, he pulled over behind him. Trent jumped out of his car and raced to his side.

  “Jerry!” he called.

  The man made no indication that he heard him. Trent called him again. This time, Jerry stopped, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he dropped to his knees, almost disappearing in the snow. If Jerry had been in this position three minutes earlier, Trent would have ran him down like the Barrows’ family dog.

  Trent scrambled in front of the man, grabbing both shoulders, shaking him. “What’s wrong with you, Jerry?”

  Jerry looked up at the man with glassy eyes.

  “It’s me, Jerry, Deputy York. What happened?”

  Jerry’s eyes began to focus. Eventually, they settled upon the man in front of him. “I want to go home.”

  “Come on, Jerry,” Trent said, grabbing the man under his arms and lifting him to his feet. “Let’s get outta here before someone comes along and runs us both over.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Of course you are, dumb ass. Where the hell is your coat?”

  Jerry looked down, seemingly surprised that he wasn’t wearing his old, greasy Carhart.

  After Trent helped the old man into the cruiser, he asked, “What happened at the courthouse, Jerry?”

  Instead of answering the question, Jerry shook his head violently, as if trying to rid a terrible thought—or memory.

  “Did you make that mess? Did you tear up my desk and files?”

  Jerry squirmed in his seat. “I just want to go home.”

  “Well, Jerry, someone has to be held accountable for that mess. That’s vandalism. Some of that was pretty expensive … our computers were destroyed. Why’d you do it?”

  The old man laughed; a short burst that he sucked back down his gullet as soon as it escaped.

  “It’s not funny, Jerry. That stuff is expe—”

  “Shut up, Deputy.”

  “What?”

  “You know I didn’t do it.”

  “And how do I know that, Jerry? Am I telepathic or something?”

  “Because you know I can’t rip a door from its metal hinges. Now are you going to take me home or not?”

  Before Trent could answer, his phone rang.

  He glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it. “This is Deputy York.”

  He held the phone away from his ear and groaned. “Calm down, I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Trent said into the phone, still holding it away from his head. Gingerly, he put the phone back to his ear. “What do you mean, Mr. Johnson? You mean right now?” Trent pushed a button on his dash and the call transferred from his Phone to the cruiser’s sound system.

  “Yes, right now,” Milo Johnson screamed into his phone. “Not more than two damn minutes ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “That damn drunk is out there right now, and you’re gonna’ let ‘em get away, while you ask me the same damn questions over and over!”

  “I’m on my way, Mr. Johnson. Just looking to get a jump-start on the investigation. What is it that you think Jerry did?”

  “The sonofabitch broke a window in my basement. First my fence, now my window. I got snow and wind blowing all over the place down here. It’s my rec room, and I have a lot of expensive collectibles down there. You can bet your ass he’s going to pay for whatever gets ruined.”

  “Well, Mr. Johnson, we’ll get to the bottom of this, but I think you’re going to have to rethink your prime suspect if you’re sure it all happened just a few minutes ago. Jerry is with me. And we’re easily ten minutes away. Maybe more in this weather.”

  “You’ve got that
sonofabitch with you right now? Is this some kind of conspiracy or something? Are you both out to get me?”

  Trent rolled his eyes. “Just sit tight, Mr. Johnson. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “The hell you will! I don’t want that man anywhere near me!”

  “Fine. I’ll take him home, and I’ll be by—” Trent’s voice died as a loud crash rang out in the phone, followed by Mr. Johnson’s terrified scream.

  “Mr. Johnson? What happened? Are you alright?”

  “HE JUST BROKE ANOTHER WINDOW! THERE IS SNOW BLOWING EVERYWHERE!” His voice was a panicky scream that Trent and Jerry could barely hear over the rushing wind coming from Milo Johnson’s house.

  Jerry leaned his head into the front seat and screamed into the cruiser’s console, “You gotta’ get out of there, Milo!”

  “Is that you, Jerry, you window-breaking sonofabitch? You’re gonna’ pay for this!”

  “Milo! You’re in danger, please! Get out of that house!”

  Trent looked at Jerry with wide eyes, instinctively picking up the speed.

  “You’re gonna’ pay for this, Jerry! Mark my words!”

  “Shut the hell up, Milo! Get outta’ there before it’s too late! I’m sorry … I’m sorry for your fence … I’m sorry for everything; just please, get out of that house!”

  Blowing wind was the only answer. Both Trent and Jerry held their breath as they listened.

  “Milo?” Trent said, finally. “Mr. Johnson, are you there?”

  Milo didn’t answer, but they could hear the rustling of fabric, as though Milo had put his phone in his pants pocket. Then they could clearly hear a door slamming. More rustling, followed by the hushed voice of Milo Johnson.

  “Please … help … me.”

  “We’re coming, Milo. Just hang tight.”

  “Please …”

  The sound of breaking glass rang out through the cruisers cab once again, followed by a dull thud that sounded like a hundred and fifty pound sack of potatoes hitting the floor. Then, there was nothing but silence. Jerry sunk as deep as he could into the backseat, as Trent hammered on the gas pedal, steering the sliding cruiser over the snow-packed streets like the expert he was.