In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

  The house at 632 Evergreen Lane on the north side of Hulis Township was a simple one and one-half story bungalow, sitting on what appeared to be an average-sized lot. However, while there were other houses lining the street itself, none of them were what you could consider nearby. In fact, the closest in proximity was at best a football field away. On top of that, the undeveloped lots that made up that distance between them were to the heavy side of moderately wooded with stands of conifers. The arrangement effectively left number 632 to occupy its own private corner of the world.

  “From the looks of the trees I suppose it has always been this secluded,” Constance observed aloud as Skip levered his door shut.

  “Yeah,” he replied, leaning to the side and looking around the light bar at her. “Looked pretty much the same in seventy-five. It was a different color, but…well… This place has been boarded up more than once over the years.”

  “Secluded and abandoned. That would explain why Colson chose it to hole up.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we thought too. Just don’t know why we didn’t find them here on the first pass…” Skip sighed heavily then cleared his throat. “Back when I was a kid, old man Henderson lived here. Died here too. After that we used to think the place was haunted.” He glanced over his shoulder, gazing at the structure for a good while, then added. “Who knows? Maybe now it really is.”

  “I’d like to think there’s a mundane explanation for what’s been happening,” Constance replied.

  Skip gave a quiet snort, then nodded and said, “I’d be much obliged if you could find one.”

  Sunset was still a little over an hour away, but the cloud cover that had been looming over the town all day was still firmly in place. What little daylight they had left was being consumed by the ravenous shadows from the surrounding wooded lots. Whether it was the clouds, the shadows, or something else entirely, to Constance it simply didn’t seem as “light” out here as it had just a scant few minutes earlier. The muted patina made her feel unnaturally chilled.

  She continued to stare across the top of the police cruiser, silently taking in the tableau. In stark contrast to the green-needled conifers on either side of the property, a bare-branched pin oak tree was rising out of the front yard. It was malformed, probably due to some sort of damaging wind or storm that had sheared off the weaker branches at one time or another in its history. Though dormant now, she imagined that when its foliage was full during summer, it likely had an abundance of character and provided a refreshing shade. However, at the moment there was nothing inviting about the tree. In fact, it looked to her like a spindly, tortured soul trying to escape a forgotten grave, the headstone for which was the house itself.

  The state of disrepair on the structure was evident. The once white paint on the aged clapboard siding was filthy, stained, and dull. Large areas were peeling away to reveal a coat of slate blue beneath, some of which was peeling as well. Along the left front corner, the gutter had separated from the fascia and was hanging several inches below the edge of the roof. The downspout was bent and cocked outward, but still secured to the side of the house. It appeared to be the only thing keeping the trough from crashing to the ground.

  Plywood covered the windows on either side of the front door. Before affixing them, someone had actually taken the time to cut the sheets to fit the top arc so that they would be flush against the trim. However, combined with the weathering and fading light, that care in craftsmanship made the boarded up windows appear as a pair of dead eyes, rolling upward into the half story.

  Hair prickled along the back of Constance’s neck. The tingling sensation continued the length of her spine as a low moan began to rise in her ears. Her breath caught in her throat and she tensed. In a movement born of pure reflex she hooked her thumb and slid her arm back, smoothly shifting her coat out of the way and brushing her hand against the grip of her Sig Sauer. A heartbeat behind the forlorn sound, its source was revealed when an icy lick of wind caught her hair and whipped it around, stinging as it slapped against her weather-reddened cheeks.

  Halfway through closing her fingers on the sidearm she realized what she was doing, and Constance allowed her hand to loosen, then slide slowly back down to her side. She cast a furtive glance around and allowed herself to breathe. The deputy was still in his vehicle and the sheriff had his back to her. Fortunately, it appeared that her moment of weakness had gone unnoticed. The last thing she needed was to look like a wimp in front of them.

  “Damn,” Skip muttered.

  Constance focused on him as he turned back toward the car. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think these batteries are dead,” he complained, hammering the butt of a multi-cell flashlight against the heel of his hand, then clicking the button repeatedly. He frowned at the unlit business end of the torch and huffed, “Weird. I just changed them last week… Well…hang on. Let me borrow Broderick’s.”

  The sheriff turned and started toward the other vehicle, but Constance interrupted before he had taken three steps. “That’s okay. We can just do this tomorrow.”

  Skip stopped and looked back over the car at her. A curious expression applied itself to his face and he said. “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she replied, glancing up at the sky then back down to his face. The wind was still rising and falling, so she reached up and brushed a wayward shock of hair out of her eyes then gave him a thin smile. “Like you were saying, not much daylight left, and we won’t find anything tonight that won’t still be there in the morning.” She shrugged. “Besides, maybe your flashlight being dead is a sign.”

  He snorted out a half chuckle. “Yeah… Okay…”

  “Trust me, Skip,” she offered. “I’ve seen stranger things.”

  He looked at the flashlight, then cocked an eyebrow and regarded her quietly for a handful of seconds. Finally he said, “I’m not sure I even want to know.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. You probably don’t.”

  The chill dancing along Constance’s spine didn’t really subside until they were almost back to the sheriff’s office near the center of town. As she struggled to shake it off, she didn’t know whether she should be disturbed, embarrassed, or both.

  CHAPTER 13

  4:49 P.M. – December 22, 2010

  Greenleaf Motel

  Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

  Constance pushed aside the sad remains of what was supposed to have been a Cobb salad. She’d picked it up from That Place on her way to the motel since it had been rapidly approaching dinnertime, and she wasn’t really interested in venturing out once she’d managed to get settled. The salad was edible, but it had been devoid of avocado, shredded Colby had taken the place of the Roquefort cheese, and the only dressing they had was prepackaged pouches of ranch. In reality, Faux Chef Salad would have been a more apt label for it. Hindsight being what it was, she concluded that the meatloaf might have been a better choice.

  Stella, the waitress from earlier in the day had handled her order. She’d been courteous enough but never managed to achieve a state that could be construed as friendly. Constance had also experienced much the same reaction from the desk clerk when checking in to her room. Other than Merrie, no one seemed particularly happy about her presence here in Hulis. Even Clovis at the sheriff’s office had been aloof around her, and she still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Carmichael himself.

  After digging through her computer case twice, she finally managed to locate an old network cable buried in one of the inner pockets. The motel had boasted Internet access, however, as it turned out it was hardwired only. Apparently the concept of Wi-Fi hadn’t taken hold in this small town just yet. Based on everything else she had seen thus far, she wasn’t overly surprised.

  Still, she hoped the cable would work. Actually finding it in the bag was only the first hurdle. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used it and was sure it had been quite some time since it had even seen the light of day. Given the severe crimps
in the cable’s length, its condition was definitely suspect.

  She crawled around on the floor and located the network receptacle, then plugged in. The connector immediately popped out and fell to the floor. It took three tries before she realized the locking tab on the plastic rectangle, while still hanging on, was severely cracked. She turned the cable around, pushed in the other end, and heard it click. She gave it a slight tug to be sure and let out a sigh when it remained solidly in place. That was the second hurdle. She figured maybe she could just hold the broken end in on the computer while she worked, assuming there was nothing else wrong with it. Backing out from beneath the desk, feeling a bit frustrated with all of these gyrations, she misjudged the distance and banged her head on the underside as she came up.

  “Oww,” she yelped, then mumbled, “Dammit…”

  Constance stood up, then while rubbing the back of her head with one hand, she pushed the damaged end of the blue cord into the jack on her notebook with the other. It stayed for a half heartbeat then popped out, much as she’d expected. She picked it up and jammed the clear connector back into the side of the computer once again and held it there.

  She gave it a thoughtful frown. Working like this was going to be awkward, especially if she had to type anything of length. Hunting and pecking with her left hand wasn’t going to be terribly efficient. She considered walking over to the motel office to see if they had a cable she could borrow, but something told her it would be unlikely. Besides, she didn’t even want to think about putting shoes back on right now, heels or otherwise.

  After staring at the problem for a moment she let out a quiet “hmph,” then let go of the connector. She heard it click against the desk as it fell out again, but her attention was elsewhere as she ambled over to the nightstand and opened the top drawer. Fortunately, the Gideons were on top of their game, even in Hulis. She pulled out the hardbound Bible, sauntered back to the small desk, then shoved the cord back into the socket and plopped the heavy book on top of the wire, pushing it up against the back edge of the clear plastic connector. This time it stayed firmly in place, so she pointed at it and mumbled, “don’t even think about moving,” then she carefully pressed the power button on the notebook.

  While the computer whirred through its start-up sequence, she parked herself in a straight-backed chair that was so uncomfortable she was firmly convinced it had to be from the same matched set as the one sitting in the sheriff’s office. She shifted around, trying to find a less miserable position, but finally gave up. Obviously this just wasn’t going to be her day. Snatching up her cell phone from the desk, she leaned back and thumbed through the screens to see if there were any text messages or voice mails she might possibly have missed.

  Nothing.

  She stared at the device and pursed her lips, then frowned. It was almost 5:00. Not exactly late, but that made it better than four hours since she’d left the message for Agent Drew. Of course, it was the holidays, after all. He might be with family, if he had any. Or, he could just be avoiding her. She wasn’t really sure which was most likely. Truth is, she wasn’t really sure about anything where Drew was concerned, other than they’d had no choice but to work together on occasion and that they had a noticeable clash personality-wise.

  She considered ringing him again but stopped short of actually pulling up his number on the screen. Maybe she needed to try calling one of the other agents who had been assigned. With a little luck she might actually reach one of them instead of a machine.

  Leaning over toward the foot of the bed and stretching her arm out, she snagged the case file envelope from the folio she had tucked into the outer pocket of the computer satchel. After sitting back, she dumped the contents out on her lap. Flipping her way through the documentation, sparse as it was, she located a recent case report. She eyeballed the Kansas City based number on the attached business card and thumbed it into her cell.

  The phone trilled twice and a woman’s voice answered. “Kimball…”

  “Hi, Agent Kimball?” Constance asked.

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “SA Mandalay, Saint Louis headquarters. I was trying to reach Agent Keene?”

  “You must have an old file,” Kimball said, “He transferred to the Seattle field office over a year ago.”

  Constance replied, “Oh, sorry. Listen, I hate to ask, but I’m in the field right now. Would you happen to have his new number?”

  “Sure, hang on a second.”

  Less than a minute later she had stabbed in the new number and thumbed TALK. After a trio of rings, a voice issued from the speaker. “This is Keene…”

  “Keene, hi, you may not remember me, but this is Special Agent Mandalay from the Saint Louis headquarters,” Constance announced.

  “Mandalay… Mandalay…” he mused. “Brown hair, worked violent crimes. We met at a close-quarters defense demo, right?”

  “Right. I wasn’t sure you’d remember. It’s been several years.”

  “Hard to forget. You’re the one who kicked Joe Lanting’s ass in that demo, right?”

  She allowed herself a small chuckle at the reference. “The same.”

  “Broke his nose as I recall.”

  “He had it coming, the way I remember it.”

  “That he did. So, yeah, I definitely remember you. I bet Joe does too. So…how are you doing? Didn’t I hear that you took a couple of rounds a while back?”

  Constance reached for the scars on her chest out of unconscious reflex. The shooting had occurred during a sting to apprehend an elusive and somewhat prolific serial killer who had decompensated into a rapid cascade of violence. As the killer’s mental state degenerated further, the woman had engaged in a bloody spree, leaving a horrific trail in her wake, all in an attempt to get to a high profile consultant who was directly involved in the case.

  Constance had led the team responsible for taking her down, but in the process had come close to becoming another of the victims herself. Her vest had stopped one of the bullets, but the other had struck at an unfortunate angle, allowing it to slip in behind the Kevlar barrier and penetrate her upper chest. The pain had been unlike any other she’d felt in her life. She didn’t remember much about it after that. Not until she woke up in the hospital ICU, anyway.

  Last week had marked the fifth anniversary of the incident.

  “Actually…” she hesitated as the faded memory tried to bloom anew. “It’s…been quite awhile ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah…” she replied, an uncomfortable disquiet in her voice. “I’m good. Fully recovered. Thanks for asking.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he told her. “Sorry to bring up an old…”

  She hurried to end the topic before it could gain a foothold in her thoughts. “That’s okay. Like I said, I’m all good.”

  “Yeah…” he returned, breathed an apologetic sigh, then asked, “So, what can I do for you, Mandalay?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions about a case that you worked a couple of years ago.”

  “If I can help, sure; no problem. Which one?”

  “The Christmas Butcher.”

  There was a sudden and obvious silence at the other end of the line.

  “Agent Keene? Are you still there?”

  Keene cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m here. Exactly where are you calling from, SA Mandalay?”

  “I’m actually in Hulis, Missouri at the moment. I was assigned to the case. Do you remember it?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, his tone shifting from warm camaraderie to a businesslike chill. “Hard to forget. So that’s still open…”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I guess I’m not surprised.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Just a gut feeling,” he replied, then quickly shifted the subject. “Godawful what happened to that little girl.”

  “Definitely,” she agreed. “So, I was wondering if you could help me out. I’ve been going
over the file and it seems incomplete.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. For one thing, there was no mention of Sheriff Carmichael’s connection to the original abduction case back in seventy-five, nor to John Horace Colson’s murder investigation. Also, there was no background on the parents and the sister, Rebecca Callahan.”

  “Have you checked with archives?” he asked. “I’m sure I mentioned in my report that we’d been unable to locate the sister.”

  “No offense, Agent Keene, but there wasn’t much detail to your report.”

  “My SSA and the SAC signed off on it, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  He cut her off. “I’m afraid I can’t really help you, SA Mandalay. Like I said, maybe you can check with archives if you feel like something is missing from the file.”

  “I plan to do that,” she said. She was feeling somewhat perplexed by his sudden stonewalling but pressed forward. “Still, since you worked the case I’d appreciate it if you could fill me in on-”

  “Have you spoken to the girl?” he asked, interrupting her yet again.

  “Merrie Callahan? Yes, I talked to her this afternoon.”

  “So then you know about her mental state.”

  “Yes, but that’s not-”

  “Do you plan to see this through?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Unless something has changed, then you have a murder that’s about to occur, correct?”

  “As I understand it, yes. I believe that’s why I’m here.”

  “Then perhaps you should focus on that instead of the past,” he instructed.

  Now Constance had moved from perplexed and straight into annoyed. “Excuse me, Agent Keene, but I’m trying to prevent the murder. If I can figu-”

  “Try me after Christmas, SA Mandalay,” he said, heavily stressing the after.

  “What do you mean after Christmas?”

  “Exactly that. If you still think I can help you after Christmas Day, then give me a call. But honestly, I don’t expect to hear from you again. Not about this, anyway.” His words were followed by a rustle and then dull silence.