by Dan Padavona
“You know we can’t afford to take those trees down, not with all our bills.”
Thomas wondered if Naomi meant her daughter’s medical bills. And where was the father?
“I could take the trees down for you,” Thomas said, drawing Naomi’s eyes. “Or trim them so you have a water view.”
“I can’t ask that much of you, Mr. Shepherd.”
“It wouldn’t take long. A half-hour per tree, times four trees. That equals two hours.” Naomi’s eyes widened. “Give or take. And please, call me Thomas.”
Naomi’s lips pulled tight in consideration as she took in her daughter’s hopeful stare.
“It’s not a priority. But if we take the trees down, I’ll pay you a fair price.”
“No charge, Mrs. Mourning. We’re neighbors now. Removing those trees would give me a better view of Wolf Lake from my deck.”
“I’ll think it over.” A vehicle crawled down the road, its engine rumbling. Naomi gave the car a wary glance. “We should trade numbers.”
Numbers? It took him a second to process she meant phone numbers. Naomi and Thomas pulled out their phones and updated their contact lists. As Thomas crossed the yards and scaled his deck, he overheard Scout lobbying Naomi to invite him to dinner.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night perched at the window, and the moon played hide and seek as it slipped in and out of clouds.
Thomas’s shoulders throbbed and his knees ached. Kneeling in the master bedroom, he sanded a splintered rough spot where the beam met the floor. After he sanded the beams, he needed to refinish the floor if he planned to restore the A-frame to its original glory. His uncle built the home himself. Thomas recalled the eye rolls as his father discussed Truman’s project over dinner.
“He’ll never finish it,” his father laughed, crumbling crackers into his chowder. “I know a good builder in Harmon. We installed his company’s software. I’ll make a call after Truman throws in the towel.”
Truman never quit. It took him eighteen months to build the house. Thomas rode his bike across the village and sat at the edge of the curb for hours, transfixed by the progress. Then his uncle handed him a hammer and told Thomas to knock in a few nails. A simple task, but Thomas caught the fever. Construction and remodeling were part of his blood now.
As his eyes moved up the beam, Thomas caught a name carved into the wood. Andy. He moved the sandpaper over the name and stopped. Looks like the Fleming’s son wanted the house to remember him. Who was Thomas to erase the boy’s presence? Ten years ago, he would have sanded the name away, unable to accept anything but perfection. With a smile, he sanded around the name and fixed where the boy made errant scratches with the knife, keeping his signature in place.
The long day rekindled memories. It started with his first trip to the sheriff’s department since he was a student intern. Then Ray Welch almost flattened him with his truck. Did Ray recognize Thomas? Fourteen years had passed since high school, and Thomas continued to grow after graduation. Ray still looked the same. Truman’s house held memories around every corner. Thomas floated through a never ending state of deja vu.
And that got Thomas thinking about her.
Thomas thought he and Chelsey Byrd would always be together. All high school romances struck like kismet, but most flamed out after a few weeks or months. Not Thomas and Chelsey. He met her during their sophomore years at a Friday night football game.
She’d shivered beside her friends in the stands, fashionably wearing a pair of torn jeans and a sweatshirt with no hood, her hands buried inside her pockets as she bounced on the balls of her feet to stay warm. Girls didn’t talk to him because he was different. For some reason, Chelsey did. It had been cold for a September evening, and Thomas, who sat on the metal bleachers with his friends, noticed Chelsey’s teeth chattering and offered her his hooded sweatshirt. The connection was immediate and turned his legs to jelly. By halftime, they’d moved away from their friends and sat hip to hip, ostensibly to fight off the cold, though both knew the real reason. By the fourth quarter, the stands cleared out as Wolf Lake High built a commanding lead. Thomas and Chelsey held hands until the teams left the field, both shocked the game ended while they rattled on about their favorite teachers and music they listened to. He could still picture her—brunette hair whipping in the autumn wind, button nose pink from the cold, eyes darting to his as if drawn by magnets.
For three years, Thomas and Chelsey beat the odds, surviving the stares and whispers. Why would a popular girl date a boy their classmates called a freak? As their senior year raced toward spring, attitudes softened, and his classmates accepted Thomas. His peers voted Chelsey and Thomas most likely to marry after college. It felt inevitable. Chelsey would attend SUNY Cortland while Thomas earned his criminology degree. And maybe that’s why she left him.
On a dreary May morning, Chelsey came into school late and kept her eyes glued to the floor for the rest of the day. She snapped whenever Thomas questioned her, and before the day ended, she broke up with Thomas without explanation. She was drowning. He’d read enough about clinical depression to recognize it in his girlfriend. Why wouldn’t Chelsey allow Thomas to help her? She locked him out, refusing to take his calls. According to her friends, she’d dug a hole and hidden herself from the world. Thomas caused her depression. He was sure of it. If he’d been like the other boys, if she hadn’t fought her friends, parents, and everyone who told her she could do better…
In August, Thomas left for Cortland. Chelsey remained in Wolf Lake. His stomach sickened with guilty remorse. Did she rescind her scholarship to avoid him?
He never got over Chelsey. For years, friends kept him abreast on his old girlfriend. Then her name faded away as though she didn’t exist. Someone told Thomas at their five-year reunion Chelsey lived in Albany. Another friend argued she’d moved to Toronto. No one had seen her, and she wouldn’t show her face at school reunions.
With a heavy breath, Thomas set the sandpaper aside and sat against the beam, his eyes following the sparkling lights across the lake. The day hung heavy on his body. He was about to prepare for bed when a branch snapped outside the open window.
Straightening, Thomas moved to the screen and cupped his hand over his eyes, blocking out the light. Someone was outside the house. In his yard? The trees stretched around the water and climbed into the state park on the east side of the lake. He pushed the window all the way open and flipped the lights off. Now he could see into the woods. A shadow passed behind a tree and descended the ridge, heading toward his house. Sheriff Gray’s words flickered in Thomas’s head—the Harmon gangs use the lake to transport drugs after dark.
Thomas grabbed his gun and a flashlight. He took the stairs two at a time and slid the deck door open. The backyard slept in shadow. The lake sloshed against the shore. Hopping from the deck, he stayed low and jogged toward the trees. The footsteps came closer now. Unwanted memories of the gunshot kept him on high alert.
The shadowed figure cut across a trail, agile for a big man.
“Who’s there?”
The man stopped upon hearing Thomas’s voice. As Thomas touched the gun in his shoulder holster, the unknown figure raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot. I’m Darren Holt, the ranger for Wolf Lake State Park. Sorry if I crossed your property line.”
Thomas let out a breath when the man edged out of the darkness. The imposing figure stood a few inches over six feet. Black stubble on his face matched his short hair, partially hidden beneath a baseball cap.
“You must be the new deputy in town,” Darren said, stepping into the light. “Someone told me you were a hometown guy.”
Thomas wasn’t surprised. The rumor mill was always active in villages like Wolf Lake. How soon before word got back to his parents?
“I’m Thomas Shepherd.”
“Hope you don’t mind me stopping by unannounced. But it seems you heard me coming first.” Darren wore a dark green ranger’s jacket. The way his eyes shifted around t
he lake told Thomas this was more than a courtesy call for the ranger. He was looking for someone. “Deputy, you hear anyone pawing around in the woods tonight?”
Thomas shook his head.
“I was upstairs working all evening.”
His mouth tight and grim, Darren set his hands on his hips and scanned the water.
“The park closes at sunset. But I swore someone was out in the woods and moving toward the water. I followed the footsteps toward your place.”
“Until you came through, I hadn’t seen another soul tonight. But I’ll keep my eyes open.” As Darren turned away, Thomas added, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like any ranger I’ve met since I joined the force.”
A wry grin curled the corner of Darren’s mouth.
“You have a trained eye, Deputy. I worked for Syracuse PD until last year, then I tired of the overnights and rising crime rate, so I threw my hat in when the ranger position opened at Wolf Lake.”
Having an ex-cop working in the state park had its benefits, if the rumors about drug trafficking were true.
“I worked with the LAPD for the last decade. Guess I felt the same as you. Too many problems to solve, too many sleepless nights. I mean, that’s what many police officers face. Not saying you did too. It’s not right to make assumptions about others.”
Darren eyed Thomas as he might a zoo animal with four heads. A splash across the lake drew the ranger’s attention.
“Yeah, I came here for the solitude too. But trouble has a funny way of finding everyone.”
CHAPTER FIVE
On the southern edge of Harmon, where urban blight encroached on rural conservatism, Jeremy Hyde loomed over the Save Mart buffet bar. At nine o’clock, the only remaining entrees were fried fish in congealed grease and macaroni and cheese. A fly buzzed around the bar and lit on the fish, so Jeremy scooped the macaroni and cheese into a Styrofoam container and eyed the people milling around the produce section. Bundled inside a fur coat, a woman in her sixties picked through the lettuce and sniffed, dissatisfied with the selection quality. A box boy wheeled canned goods through the produce aisle and vanished around the corner.
Jeremy filled the container and pushed the top down until the brittle locks snapped together. He glanced at his hand and bristled at the cheese smeared across his palm. Jittery, he searched for something to clean the mess, then settled on a plastic produce bag hanging over the radishes. He yanked down on the plastic as fur coat woman studied him through her glasses. He wanted to tell the bitch to turn around and mind her own business. But a manager type in a shirt and tie strolled past the lettuce in a hurry. Jeremy turned and shielded his hands with his body. After he wiped the cheesy muck off his palm, he dropped the bag in the garbage can and slipped a bottle of hand sanitizer from his coat pocket. Squeezed the goo onto his palm and rubbed his hands together as if warming himself beside a fire. Then he slid the hand sanitizer into his coat and rummaged deeper for the antibiotic ointment.
Before he applied the ointment, he raised his palm to his mouth and flicked his tongue against the skin. Did he taste blood? He couldn’t be too careful. One tiny cut, and germs would clamber inside his body. He squeezed the ointment over the unblemished skin and massaged it in. Were he at the apartment, he would have covered his skin with a bandage. Just to be sure.
The checkout boy had a face full of oozing zits. It was enough to turn Jeremy’s stomach and make him wish he’d purchased the fish. He held up his hand when the boy reached into the cash register for change.
“Keep it,” Jeremy said, snatching the container before the boy protested.
The automatic doors hummed open. Night struck his face like an open-handed slap. The cold made him feel alive, reminded him of last night.
He turned the key in the ignition and set the food container beside him. A dry chuckle escaped his lips and careened around the SUV. Blood soaked the passenger seat. He’d spent hours cleaning the mess before he gave up and covered the massacre with a blanket. The interior stank of copper and fate. And nobody knew.
On his way back to the apartment, motoring through the vacant city streets where only shadows moved, he slowed the vehicle when he approached the whores. One woman clicked toward him when he paused at the stop sign. She leaned over and motioned for Jeremy to lower the window before he kicked the gas and turned the corner, tires screeching.
A gym bag rested beneath the glove compartment. Plastic crinkled inside. He giggled at the irony. The prostitute had approached his vehicle, not knowing her dead friend lay inside. Well, part of her, at least. He spit laughter and swiped his forearm across his lips.
When he checked the mirrors, the whores’ shadows strutting on the distant corner, he was surprised no police cruisers rode his bumper. No flashing lights or screaming sirens. He’d taken Erika forever, and nobody caught him. The murder took months of careful planning. It had been so easy.
As the Chevrolet Trax crept between the dark buildings, he missed Erika. He couldn’t say what attracted him to the young prostitute. Perhaps it was seeing her every day, her long, sensual legs beneath the short skirt, the way the cold brought the pink out of her cheeks and made her look even younger than her teenage years.
Easter had passed. The cold wouldn’t last forever. Soon, every woman in Harmon would embrace spring and show skin. He liked it when they displayed just enough to pump his blood. And spring meant endless possibilities.
There was always another Erika. He needed to find her.
CHAPTER SIX
Silver light from the overcast morning bled through Scout’s bedroom window while she loaded the internet browser on her laptop. Outside, hammer struck nail as the new neighbor worked on a deck behind his house. She’d been curious about Deputy Shepherd since he helped her across the lawn. The Flemings hadn’t paid attention to Scout, though they were cordial if she started the conversation. It was nice to have someone next door who waved and asked how your day was.
She typed his name into Google and scanned the results. Lots of Thomas Shepherds. Narrowing the search to Wolf Lake, she discovered a story from sixth months ago in the Bluewater Tribune. LAPD Detective Thomas Shepherd of Wolf Lake, New York, was shot in the line of duty during a raid on a drug house in South Los Angeles. A joint task force between the LAPD and DEA coordinated the raid. Shepherd, who was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome as a child, rose through the LAPD ranks…
A detective with Asperger’s syndrome? Scout’s eyes moved to the window. In the next yard, Thomas pried an old board off the deck and laid a new weatherproof plank. Despite the midmorning chill, the man used his sweatshirt to dab sweat off his forehead. Her heartstrings pulled when Thomas reached behind him and touched the small of his back, favoring the old wound.
Mom hadn’t told Thomas the whole truth about her interest in crime. Yes, she read mysteries and watched television crime documentaries. But she’d also taken to amateur sleuthing since the accident. Being stuck inside made her edgy and curious, and the concept of solving a mystery in front of her computer lent her a fire and drive she hadn’t had since she lost her ability to walk.
“It’s not nice to stare.”
Scout flinched, not hearing Mom descend the carpeted stairway. Usually the floorboards moaned overhead and gave Scout fair warning to minimize her browser window. Mom supported Scout’s curiosity, but she wouldn’t approve of the crime scene photographs Scout acquired from private sleuthing forums.
“I wasn’t staring, just watching him work. He seems like a nice guy, right?”
Mom crossed the bedroom and laid a hand on Scout’s shoulder.
“We just met Mr. Shepherd yesterday. I realize you want to trust him, but fourteen-year-old girls should be careful of strangers.”
“But he’s not a stranger. He’s a deputy with the sheriff’s department.”
Naomi uttered an unconvinced grunt. Scout’s mother was about to turn away when her eyes locked on the laptop screen. Shoot. Scout should have closed the
lid. Now Mom knew she’d been snooping for information on their neighbor.
“An LAPD detective with Asperger’s,” Naomi said, inching closer to the screen.
“Now do you agree we should trust him?”
But Mom wasn’t paying attention. She skimmed the article and turned her gaze on Thomas, slaving over the deck.
“Shot in the line of duty. Worked on a joint task force with the DEA. What’s he doing in Wolf Lake?”
“Mom, when is Dad coming to say hello?”
An injured look struck her mother’s eye. Scout didn’t mean to upset her mother, but it had been months since Dad visited.
“Your father is busy with his new job,” Naomi said, scratching her nose as she turned her eyes away. “I’m sure he’ll visit when he can. Why don’t you text him?”
* * *
Naomi’s chest tightened as she watched Thomas through the window. Her daughter needed Glen, but Naomi’s ex-husband was never the same after the accident. Yesterday, she’d grown uncomfortable as Scout carried on with the new neighbor. She recognized something was off with Deputy Shepherd, and she felt stupid for not recognizing it. He seemed like a decent man, and having a deputy next door might be a good thing. Perhaps Scout’s idea of inviting Thomas to dinner made sense.
She wiped down the counters and tossed the sponge in the sink. After she dried her hands on her apron, she checked her hair in the window, untied the apron, and straightened her sweater.
“I’ll be next door for a few minutes if you need me,” she called down the hall.
Scout muttered acknowledgment and clicked away on her computer. Probably solving another cold case, Naomi thought with a grin. Thomas looked up and set the hammer down when Naomi crossed the yard. With the sun behind the clouds and a chilling wind whipping off the lake, it seemed like February. Condensation clouds puffed from her mouth.