The First Time I Hunted

by Jo Macgregor

  The next post, in November, was a frantic appeal from Doug Piccolo, saying that Jacob was missing and asking if any of his friends had seen or heard from him. I scrolled up through the succeeding posts: messages of shock and concern from friends, more appeals for help, an invitation to a night vigil organized by his family, complaints about the lack of progress in the investigation, and a flurry of posts on the first anniversary of his disappearance. Over the months and years that followed, the number of posts dwindled to the occasional “Keep the faith” and “Missing you, bud” and “Never forgotten.”

  Doug Piccolo alone had continued to post on every anniversary of Jacob’s birthday and the day he’d gone missing. Then, on March 17, 2018 Doug had posted that Jacob’s remains had been found. He gave details of a commemoration service, and again, there were a dozen more shocked posts from old friends, but I noticed that after that, it was once again only Doug who posted on Jacob’s birthday.

  I was looking at Jacob’s gallery of photos — heart-breaking when you knew what had ultimately happened to him — when a loud knock sounded at the door. It was my mother, wearing a purple-and-yellow muumuu and carrying a bunch of flowers.

  “Here I am, dear!” she said as though I’d been searching everywhere for her.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” I began crossly.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Look,” she said, thrusting the bouquet into my hands, “blue hyacinths to make peace and white tulips for forgiveness. May I come in?”

  I stepped aside to let her pass, but I was far from pacified by her floral offering. “You can’t just hand out my address to strange men, Mom.”

  “Yes, your father told me afterward that I shouldn’t have done that, but by then, it was too late. The bus had sailed the train station. And in my defense, he did look and sound very professorial.”

  “Professors can also be very bad men.”

  “Yes, dear. I won’t do it again.” She went to my kitchen cupboards and began searching. “I see now I should have brought a vase.”

  “Why were you even home instead of at the store?” I asked.

  “Wyoming does Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons for me,” she said brightly. “I can’t think why I never hired an assistant sooner. Since you won’t come work with me, at least I can come and visit you!”

  “Uhm…” I said, not nearly as pleased at the prospect as she was, then I was distracted by my phone beeping an incoming text. Checking it, I saw that Tyler Washington had sent me a single emoji — the open-mouthed “Wow!” So the info I’d sent him the day before clearly matched what the FBI had discovered about the Crowbury crime. Score one for the interfering civilian without a badge.

  “I guess this will do,” my mother said, filling an ice bucket with water and dropping the flowers into it. She pointed at my laptop. “Learning anything interesting there on the googler?”

  I shrugged and rubbed my knuckles into my eyes. I’d spent the whole afternoon staring at a screen, sifting through information, and stuffing my head with facts, but was I really any closer to knowing who the Button Man was or why he’d killed? I was certainly no nearer to actually finding him. Puffing out an irritated breath, I pulled out the maps of New England and studied them again.

  My mother crept closer and peered over my shoulder. “What have you got there?”

  “These are the places where I know Button Man victims went missing or where bodies were found.” I pointed out the marked areas. “And the farm where I had my visions on Saturday is around here.”

  “Oh, Garnet, look at your arms and hands! You’ve been picking at yourself again.”

  She was right; there were smears of blood and new scabs on my upper arms and the backs of my hands. I often fell into the habit when I was zoned out, like in front of a TV or computer screen, and didn’t realize until afterward.

  “I swear, one of these days I’m going to buy you a cat scratching post!” she said.

  My gaze slid over to my phone, where my screen had just lit up with another message from Washington. This time, it was the emoticon of thankful hands. Somehow, in some way, I’d added something useful to the investigation, and Washington at least, was grateful. I wanted to whoop in delight but settled for sending back a thumbs-up. We were developing quite the relationship, Tyler and me, though I’d put good money on him regularly deleting any trace of our conversations, just in case Singh got nosy.

  “What have you found out from all your research?” my mother asked.

  “Not a whole helluva lot,” I admitted.

  She gave me an I-told-you-so look. “Then what’s your next step?”

  “No idea. I have two, maybe three suspects, one of whom looks more promising than the others because he drives the kind of car I saw in one of my visions, but I have no real idea of where any of them went after they left Crowbury, what they might be doing now, or even if they’re still alive.”

  She pulled a chair closer and sat down. “What did they do before they left?”

  “They all worked in a fabric store, and one also worked on that farm.”

  “Maybe they stuck to what they knew. Now, I’m no expert private eye,” my mother said. As though I was. “But I would guess that there are fewer fabric stores in New England than there are farms. Maybe you could check those out first?”

  “There must be lots, though. Where do I even start?”

  “From Crowbury, of course,” she said.

  “That’s the one place I know those men aren’t.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Wait. It’ll be easier to just show you. I need some string or thread and one of your crystals. The charoite, I think.”

  “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “If only that were more true! You think too much about everything. Analysis paralysis, that’s what you’ve got. And it’s getting you nowhere. It’s time to try something different.”

  Since one definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, I decided to embrace whatever kooky technique my mother had planned. But I owned no sewing supplies or string, so I brought her a length of dental floss and all the stones from my jacket pockets.

  “Glad to see you’re keeping them on you, dear.” She selected a pretty purple stone and tied it up neatly in a cradle of floss. “Now, you need to take this end and let the crystal hover over that farm on the map. Hold it absolutely still.”

  I balked at that. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Oh, do you have some nice solid facts to be going on with, then?” My mother was capable of dialing up the sarcasm when she chose.

  I took the end of the dental floss and suspended the stone directly over Crowbury, about eight inches above the map.

  “Now, close your eyes, and think of what it is you want,” my mother instructed.

  Despite feeling utterly silly, I did so. I concentrated on the thought of where either Larry or Derek might have gone after they left the farm. I got no finger tingles, no tightening scalp, no messages. Good. For a moment there, I’d gone over to the dark side, abandoning all logic to dangle a freaking chip of rock over a map.

  “Nothing’s happening,” I said smugly.

  “Open your eyes, Garnet.”

  “What the hell?” I said, staring at the pendulum, which was swinging in small circles. Was I making that happen?

  “See how it’s pulling slightly to that side?” my mother said. “Move it over toward there, just a little at a time.”

  I moved my hand fractionally to the right, crossing the border between Vermont and New Hampshire. The pendulum moved faster. Its arcs grew wider. When I moved it a fraction to the right, the movement slowed and shrank. It was like the old getting-warmer-getting-colder game I’d played with friends when we were kids. When I established the area with the strongest movements, my mother put her finger on the spot of the map directly below the pendulum’s circle.

  “How is this supposed to work?” I asked, dumbfounded.
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br />   “The spirits gather their energy from the ethos and direct your inner essence.”

  While I puzzled over what that meant, she lifted her finger and peered underneath.

  “Woodbridge,” she said. “Is there a fabric store there?”

  I did a quick search online and discovered that it was indeed home to a fabric store called A Stitch in Time.

  “There you go. That’s where you start, then. It’s the logical conclusion.”

  “It’s the opposite of logical,” I mumbled, still not convinced that I hadn’t subconsciously caused the pendulum’s movements.

  When my mother left, I grabbed my phone and began dialing. Then I hit the red telephone and stood undecided for a minute, rubbing my fingertips over my lips and wondering if I was brave enough to do what I wanted. I weighed potential risks against possible pleasures, and then, with a muttered, “Ah, screw it,” I dialed the number again.

  “Hey, Chief,” I said when Ryan answered. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  – 33 –

  Saturday, April 28

  “So, this is where I’ll be staying.” I handed Henry Mason the slip of paper on which I’d written the details of the B&B in Halliwell, New Hampshire.

  Ryan and I would be starting in Woodbridge, the town the pendulum had seemingly indicated, but we’d take the opportunity to check out a couple of other fabric stores in the general area while we were up there.

  “And you’ve got my number.” I’d written that in large print and stuck it to his refrigerator with a Best Grandpa in the World! magnet. “Call if there’s any kind of problem, okay?”

  “You think I’m a kid? You think I’ve never stayed home alone before?” he growled. “Stop fussing over me, you odd-eyed duck, and get a move on.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Henry,” I said. Outside, Ryan called my name. “Coming!” I yelled and paused at Henry’s hallway mirror to check my appearance. I finger-combed my hair, applied a coat of lipstick, popped a mint in my mouth, and headed out, leaving Henry still grumbling about smothering women.

  Ryan, looking fine in khaki chinos and a white button-down shirt, was waiting beside his Toyota Highlander in the driveway. He held my overnight bag. “This it?”

  “That’s it.” When he made to toss it into the back of his car, I added, “But I’m driving, and we’re going in my car.”

  His black eyebrows drew together in surprise. “Why?”

  How to answer that? I could hardly say, “Because we’ll be spending the night in New Hampshire and only returning tomorrow, and that’s the longest I will have spent in a man’s company since Colby and I am excited but also freaking anxious, and if it all gets to be too much, I want to be able to jump into my car and flee.” So instead, I just stuck a finger in my mouth like a little kid and chewed on a nail. Real mature.

  “My car’s faster,” Ryan said.

  “Oh yeah? Says who?”

  “Says the two-seventy-horsepower, 3.5-liter V6 engine.”

  “If you’re hoping to impress me with a vehicle, Chief, you’d be better off with a food truck,” I said, walking over to my old Honda.

  Ryan dropped my bag and took a few steps closer to me. “But hey, if you like slow …”

  “I like slow,” I said, giving him a naughty smile.

  One of his eyebrows quirked. “I’ll make a note of that.” Another step closer. “How about noisy?”

  “Sometimes, you know, when your engine’s revved, you can’t stop the … purring.”

  He smiled. “I do believe I have heard that purr,” he said, closing the distance between us. “And what about some real power when the pistons start pumping?”

  “Tempting,” I said, staring up into those slate-gray eyes and feeling the heat in my cheeks.

  “Because you need real staying power for a long … slow … drive. And I’ve got six cylinders and two hundred forty-eight pound-feet of torque.”

  I swallowed then whispered, “Okay,” committing myself with the word. I was in this, both feet inside the circle. There would be no running away when things got intense.

  But maybe some of my anxiety showed on my face because Ryan tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and said, “We’ll go at your pace, Garnet. Just say the word, and I’ll hit the brakes, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said again, and this time my voice was steadier.

  At a loud throat clearing, I glanced back at the house to find Henry spectating. I waved a hand between the two of them. “Ryan, have you met Henry Mason?”

  “Course I have. How’re you doing, Henry?”

  “Chief,” Henry said with a nod. “Arresting this one, are you?”

  Ryan grinned. “Just detaining her for a while.”

  “See you tomorrow night, Henry.” I went to Ryan’s car, tossed my bag into the back, and climbed into the passenger seat. Outside, the two men chatted for another minute, and then Ryan got in behind the wheel, chuckling.

  As we pulled away, I asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “Henry. He said to watch my back around you.”

  I gave an exasperated snort. “Let me guess — my eyes?”

  “He said differently colored eyes mean that when you were a newborn, you were touched by a fairy, or so they say.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” I asked, and before he could answer, added, “I can’t tell if he actually has an obsession with my eyes or if he just gets a kick from needling me.”

  Ryan glanced at me, his cheek dimpling in a grin. “He also said that when the wee folk visit babies, they confer great fairylike beauty on them.”

  “Oh,” I said, mollified. No one had ever called me fairylike before, and only Colby had ever called me beautiful.

  “But he added that they must have skipped that step in your case.”

  “That man! I’m going to tell his daughter he lives on chocolate and pancakes. And wine.”

  Ryan snagged my hand and squeezed it. “But I told him that I don’t think they skipped any steps.”

  At that, I smiled too.

  We took the ramp onto the highway, headed east out of Pitchford, and Ryan turned on the car radio. An upbeat love song thumped out for all of ten seconds then subsided into dull static. Ryan fiddled with the buttons and touchscreen controls for a minute but only got the harsh white noise.

  “I don’t know what’s up with this,” he said, finally switching it off.

  I did. Radios tended to act up when Colby was near. Was he near now, perhaps coming along to play chaperone?

  “So,” Ryan asked as he took the turn north onto Route 89, “want to hear about my search for the Kehoe family in the databases?”

  “Yes! Did you find out anything?”

  “Not much, unfortunately. There was a 1998 death certificate for a Mary Kay Kehoe, listing drowning as the cause of death. I didn’t find one for a Melvin or Marvin or even a Martin Kehoe.”

  “He could still be alive,” I said. “But if he did die there on the farm, Mary Kay and Derek probably never reported the death. If they had, some awkward questions would’ve been asked. I’ll bet that’s why the farm was never sold. Without a death certificate, they couldn’t transfer the old man’s estate.” I nibbled on a nail. “Find anything for Derek Kehoe?”

  “There’s a birth certificate—”

  “1977?”

  “Yup. Nothing after that, though. No criminal record, no parking ticket, no driver’s license, no taxes paid, not even a social security number. The man’s a ghost.”

  I shot Ryan a glance. “Do you think that means he’s dead?”

  “Could be. Though there’s no death certificate for him, either.”

  At a sudden thought, I drew in a quick breath. “What if the Button Man killed him, too? He could’ve been one of the first victims — the first victim — and his poor body is lying somewhere undiscovered, and that’s why it’s like he doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s the connection to the house. It’s the victim who’s associated with it, not the killer. Or— Or,�
� I said excitedly, “it could be both! Derek was the victim, and Larry was the killer.” My mind raced, connecting ideas, coming up with theories. “Maybe, after Derek left the farm, he met up with Larry again — they could’ve kept in contact over the years.”

  “And Larry just killed him? Why?” Ryan asked.

  “Derek’s grandfather was really afraid that the boy wasn’t straight.” I shrugged. “What if Derek was gay, and he liked Larry. Maybe he’d once had a crush on him, and then when they met up again, he came onto him. Larry would’ve lost his temper like he did with Chris, the guy at the store, but this time he didn’t stop the assault until the guy — Derek — was dead.” I could almost see the scene playing out in my mind’s eye. “Larry discovered he had a taste for killing, and went on to murder other men who reminded him of Derek and Chris — men who were the same age and had the same sexual orientation.”

  “You do know that’s all just speculation, don’t you?” Ryan said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I conceded reluctantly.

  My phone rang, and a glance at the screen told me it was Deaver again. I cursed under my breath and rejected the call.

  Ryan glanced from my phone to my face. “Someone bothering you?”

  “Kind of.” I explained about Deaver and chatting to him in Perry’s office. “He was helpful, but now he keeps bugging me, wanting to know what’s happening. I mean, there’s curious, and then there’s being like a dog with a bone. And then on Monday, he just showed up at my place uninvited. I didn’t like it.”

  “What’s he like?” Ryan asked, sounding serious. “This professor with all the questions.”