Sticks and Stones

by Michael Hiebert

  He wasn’t ready to let go of Carry yet. He would save her.

  He just wasn’t quite sure how that was going to happen. Despite the dry roads, as Jonathon took a hard left onto Mockingbird Lane, his back tires spun out in the loose dirt as his front barely managed to find purchase on the gravel of the new road. His Sentra near on fishtailed into one of the big gulleys scooped out of the ground at the edge of all the roads down here. He was driving too fast. He had to slow down. He couldn’t help Carry if he wound up dead before even getting to her.

  And the night certainly didn’t help. It had been easy driving down here: The streets he took had sporadic sodium lights along them, and the vast stretch of stars along with the moon coming up on his left had provided him with lots of light. Now, though, inside these narrow roads carved through the muddled and knotted woods like crazy fjords, there were no streetlights—well, hardly any—and the tall birches and maples scrunched together by all the tangle wood and strangler fig blocked out most of the natural light.

  But Jonathon’s thoughts were too overcome with saving his girlfriend to be scared about his driving.

  But . . . And with that “but” came all the second-guessing. What did he plan to do, anyway? He wasn’t a cop. What did he honestly expect to do? He had no idea, he just knew that Carry, wherever she was, was in trouble. How much? Well, judging from her ma’s reaction to everything, Jonathon figured a swampful. And it didn’t matter that he didn’t know how he was going to help yet. When the time came, he just would. That was the way fate worked, the way his grandpa always told him it did. And if something were to happen to Carry and he hadn’t tried to help? How could he ever live with himself again? That would be impossible.

  So he calmed his mind, knowing he’d taken the only real course of action available to him.

  Mockingbird Lane twisted a hard left, and then, not even forty feet later, bent into an almost ninety-degree right. Whoever made these roads, they should be the ones in trouble, he thought.

  He was now on Chickadee, a road he was pretty sure accessed Woodpecker Wind just over a mile down its curvy path. One thing Jonathon knew and was thankful for was the fact that he had a good memory. At least, he hoped it was good as he slammed the wheel left again and then right, thinking that he had to have gone a mile by now.

  Where was that road?

  On the verge of pulling a U-turn, he saw a light just beyond the turn up another half mile or so ahead. Most intersections in this bird land did have streetlights: one of them at every intersection, which meant one light every two or three miles of careening between these deadly, crazy ditches. At least it could be a light. The sharp banking turn obscured most of it, but he thought he had made out a streetlight between the boughs of the dozens of trees between. He lost it now as he continued toward it. It could’ve just been a spattering of shorter trees on one side of the road allowing the white rays of the moon to shine down and briefly catch some leaves. His heart sank now, as he got closer to the turn and saw no other sign of brightness.

  Then, just as he pulled a tight left and gravel sprayed out from his tires as the rear of his Sentra spun around, the light slid into view, shining down over his silver Nissan like the light of heaven beaming down on the saints. Snatching a quick look at the road sign, Jonathon’s hope swelled. It read WOODPECKER WIND, just as he’d remembered.

  Accelerating, he chanced the higher speed based on this road not being as curvy as the rest. There were no houses for the first mile at least, and then he came to one on his right. A white house with a picket fence. Slowing down, Jonathon strained to see the number on the side of the house, but ivy covered the black numbers. Luckily, the porch light was on, and he was able to make out the last of them. It was a four, which told Jonathon enough.

  According to the report Abe had given him from Leah’s files, the house number she’d written in was 749. Jonathon knew, no matter what the first two numbers of this white house might be, it wasn’t Tommy Stork’s. It wasn’t even on the right side of the road.

  At least another mile of twists and turns went by before Jonathon passed the next house, this one much older than the last, and not in good repair. He only saw a glimpse of it streaking past. He didn’t even bother slowing down for it—it was still on the wrong side of the road.

  Then, maybe three-quarters of a mile later, Jonathon could see the woods start to break, which either meant it was somewhere loggers had been clear-cutting or it was another piece of property, this time coming up on his right, the same side Tommy Stork lived on.

  He slowed down as he came closer, but not too slow. Just in case this Stork guy was watching, Jonathon didn’t want to look suspicious. He kept his speed around thirty-five, a speed he figured most folk would think reasonable for tonight in this dense wood on these vicious roads under the black grip of all these trees.

  It was still too fast. He’d missed the house number. The house was blue, and the numbers had been white. He thought the last two had been a four and a nine, which was close enough for Jonathon to pull over to the edge of the road and park his car. He’d head back on foot, just in case it was Stork’s house. If it wasn’t, he’d be sure to drive even slower past the next one.

  Locking his car, he ran as silently as possible, staying on the roadside where the ground was hard dirt rather than on the road, where his shoes would kick up gravel.

  Coming to the clearing, he saw the blue house with the white porch and shutters and decided to just keep jogging quietly by so he could get a look at the house number. He hoped someone going for a little run way down here wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary if he was spotted.

  He did his best to keep his eyes focused in front of him while just grabbing occasional glances to the numbers by the door.

  Sure enough, he’d found the place. A little blue clapboard house, prettier than all get-out, with a nice lawn and what looked to be a newly painted detached garage. A white Hyundai Excel was parked in the driveway. Looked like Tommy Stork was home. Probably a good sign.

  Jonathon kept jogging until the trees once again separated him from any line of sight back to Stork’s property. Then he slowed to a stop and thought about his next move.

  One thing struck him immediately. Where the hell was Carry’s ma and the other cops from the Alvin station? Surely they had to have beat him here. Maybe they were even more concerned than he was about being seen. Maybe they were hiding, each posted somewhere back in the woods on either side of the crazy killer’s house.

  He figured he’d find out soon enough.

  A thought ran through his head. What drives a man living in a nice, pretty house with a big, fancy porch and a well-kept lawn and gardens to take people from right out of life and then take their lives? He shook his head. Was Carry somewhere inside that little blue home that wouldn’t look out of place on one of the covers of all them Life magazines Jonathon’s grandpa kept on the toilet? Norman Rockwell, that was the name of the guy who painted a lot of them. Jonathon couldn’t see it. The place was too nice. It actually reminded Jonathon of his grandpa’s place.

  But this was the address Miss Leah had written on the report. This had to be where Tommy Stork lived, didn’t it? Panic raced through Jonathon’s veins as the thought struck him that maybe she hadn’t written it as a replacement address. Maybe she had just been on the phone and needed somewhere to jot something down.

  Still hiding out of sight from anywhere on the property, Jonathon thought about the detached garage with the new paint job. And the more he thought about it, the more he doubted there was anywhere else more likely to be the sort of place crazy people like Tommy Stork would bring his victims to. Carry was in that garage. She had to be. Somehow, Jonathon just knew it.

  Standing on the roadside, Jonathon surveyed the area around him. The trees on the other side of the ravine-like ditch stood side by side like sentinels all the way down to where the area opened onto the garage and that house. Mostly, here, were still oak and birch, but also a lot of Douglas f
ir, their boughs weighed heavily down with Spanish moss. Between the trees, thickets of shrubs, vines, and prickly bushes grew up and around like razor wire on top of a security fence. He became aware of the smell of the woods. It saturated the air like one of them deodorizers his ma used to put in the bathroom. Jonathon thought he could taste the tree sap from where he stood.

  Stepping back three or four big steps, he took a running leap across the culvert to the narrow edge of land on the other side leading to the wall of forest. He fell at least three feet short of his target, and struggled to climb up the clumpy black edge of the ditch. Twice he tried digging his feet and fingers into the dirt lining the trench, only to have it crumble in his hands, sending him backward, and, one time, tumbling onto his back into the culvert’s bowled bottom.

  “You’re just lucky you didn’t hit your head,” he whispered to himself, taking note of a mighty big boulder a foot away from where he’d landed. He cleared that thought and tried going up the side again, this time determined to make it. His foot went deep into the loam and came down on something solid—another rock, perhaps. Whatever it was, it provided some much welcome leverage. Reaching up with his right hand, his fingers wrapped around a twist of vine he found hanging down from above. It wasn’t until Jonathon had started coming up, hand over hand on that vine as though it were a climbing rope, that he realized it was covered in blade-sharp thorns. Warm rivulets of blood from his palms began dripping down his fists and continued down his forearms.

  But he felt no pain as he hefted his right leg up onto the edge of the ground. Even the smell of the trees had disappeared. As he rolled onto his side and then his back, freed from Dante’s dark pit of hell, Jonathon’s only thoughts whirled around Carry.

  CHAPTER 60

  After Leah hollered, everyone came running back. Dan reached her first.

  “You saw Tommy?” he asked. “What ’bout your daughter?”

  “I don’t know. I only saw Tommy. At least I reckon—” Now that the moment had passed, she started doubting herself. It had happened so quick . . . What if she hadn’t actually seen somebody? Now all her goddamn yelling would have alerted Tommy they were about to close in on the barn. Now he’d have no choice but to . . .

  “Leah!” Dan yelled almost straight into her face, scaring the bejeezus out of her. “What’s goin’ on? Did you see him or not?”

  She looked back at the shack. Everything seemed to be running in slow motion, almost as if they were all under water. Ethan said something, but it just sounded like bubbles. Chris even said something, Leah thought. She didn’t care. All she cared about was going over what had just transpired in her mind. Had she seen someone? Or was it just a trick of the light? Or had she simply wanted to see someone so bad that her brain had tried to do her a favor?

  “What?” Leah asked, her senses reeling. She felt confused, then she felt herself falling.

  Dan grabbed her before she hit the ground. Then, cautiously, he set her down there for safekeeping.

  “So, we’re actually not okay,” Ethan said, walking up and slightly huffing and puffing.

  “Guess not,” Dan said. He looked down at Leah. “Well, ball’s in your court. Did you see him or didn’t you?”

  Leah took several deep breaths. She studied Tommy’s shack for another sign of movement, but, of course, there was none. “Yes,” she said at last. “I did. I saw him. He’s in the house.”

  “You’re sure?” Ethan said.

  “Yes.” Leah got up off the dusty ground and brushed her pants with her hands.

  “Okay, slight change in plans.” Dan turned to Leah. “You’re stayin’ in the car. I don’t care what car you pick to stay in, but you’re waitin’ for us in one.”

  “No,” Leah said, shaking her head. “I’m not.”

  “You just practically fainted.”

  “But I didn’t. I’m fine now. I’m doing this. I’m coming with you.”

  Ethan let out a big breath. “This is a mistake, Leah. This is what I meant about not doin’ anything stupid. This . . . this minute here? This is stupid.”

  “I don’t care. He’s got my daughter, and I’m coming!” She marched ahead of everyone else, unclipping her gun from its holster on her way.

  “Wait a minute!” Ethan called out, slowly and resignedly. “We still need a . . .” He stopped. She wasn’t listening. Dan and Chris came up on either side of him. “. . . a plan,” Ethan finished, matter-of-factly. “Or has everyone just decided to wing it today?”

  The guys started asking each other what the hell was going on. “Is she just goin’ to march straight in there and shoot Stork dead where he stands?” Chris asked.

  “I God well hope not,” Ethan said. “This whole thing’s bad enough already. Don’t need some bloody renegade cop goin’ off all vigilante.” But he didn’t dare shout out to her. He didn’t want to compromise her position.

  She did stop walking, though. Right when she reached Chris’s car. The others quickly caught up.

  “Okay,” Leah said, still worked up. “Here’s the thing. Maybe Caroline’s in the barn, maybe she’s not. If she’s in there, there’s two possibilities. One, she’s dead. And two, she’s alive. As long as we don’t let Stork back across the road, that doesn’t change. Her fate is sealed. Therefore, we take Stork down at his house. Good plan?” She looked straight at Ethan.

  Ethan raised a hand. “I have a question.”

  “What?” she asked histrionically.

  “What if Caroline’s in his goddamn house?”

  “You just searched the house.”

  “Yes. And when I did, Stork wasn’t there, either. If he’s back, she could be, too.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Dan knew the minute he saw her reaction. She was hell-bent on moving again. “You’re right,” she said, this time actually pulling her gun. “We assume Caroline’s in the house.” She popped the cylinder on her revolver, made sure all six chambers were full, snapped it back in place, and gave it a spin.

  “Wait!” Dan yelled, going for her arm to hold her back. “This is not how you want to approach this! For Christ’s sake, Leah, just think for a minute.”

  “Tell Ethan I’ve got the back door. I’d advise you and Chris to start clearing rooms.”

  Dan stopped walking beside her as they came to the front of the house. “You sure ’bout this?” he called out as she continued to the back, getting lost in the shadows of the darkness.

  “I’m not sure about nothin’ right now.” She was breathing heavy. Her words came out in clumps.

  Leah took her position by the back door, wondering if this was how her pa felt that night with Harry Stork. She could taste bile at the back of her throat. Unlike her father fifteen years ago, Leah didn’t have the luxury of a blow horn. “Tommy Stork!” she screamed. “We know you’re inside! We have the house surrounded! Your only move is to surrender. Give up the girl and come out peacefully, and you won’t be killed!” On that note, she pulled back the hammer on her Smith & Wesson 686.

  Seconds went by as nothing happened. Not even a curtain fluttered on the small window by the back of the house. “Tommy!” Leah yelled again. “This is your last chance. You have to the count of five. One ... two ... three ... four ... five!” She grabbed the walkie-talkie from where she’d stuffed it into her pocket. “Okay, Ethan!” she screamed into it. “Make your move!” It would occur to her later that she probably didn’t need the walkie-talkie.

  Then came three hard slams as Ethan’s boot undoubtedly took the door right off the house this time. Leah heard Dan and Chris run inside. “Room one, clear!” Dan shouted.

  “Room two, clear!” Chris shouted.

  Dammit, Leah thought. He’s hiding inside. We need to flush him out.

  “Don’t forget to check behind furniture and under beds and inside closets!” Leah yelled.

  “He’s in the bathroom!” Chris yelled.

  Then, right on the heels of that, she heard Dan scream, “He’s makin’ a run for the back d
oor, and he’s armed! Repeat: He’s armed!”

  Leah crouched down low with her weapon still in her hand. Her fingers were shaking, she could see it by the moonlight glittering off the barrel of her Smitty.

  Suddenly, the back door opened and out burst Tommy Stork. Leah’s eyes immediately went to the piece in his left hand. The light of the moon shimmered over the barrel. She thought it looked like a Beretta, like the 92 Harry Stork had wielded the night he made a move very similar to the one his brother just did.

  “Wait!” he shouted, out of breath. “You got the wrong guy.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before!” Leah yelled. “Drop your weapon! And where the hell’s my baby girl?”

  The weapon stayed gripped tightly in his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking ’bout. You got the wrong guy! I’ve been set up.” His gun definitely was a Beretta. Either the same one Harry had, or maybe a 96. Either way . . . shit. Now was not the time for thoughts to start churning in her head again. The next second could be her last.

  “Drop the weapon!” Leah screamed once more. “I’m not telling you again!”

  But just like the last time she warned him, he didn’t obey. It was like he wasn’t even aware he was holding it.

  It’s the wrong gun. She was absolutely positive there were no Beretta 92s or Beretta 96s that chambered 9 mm. None that she’d ever heard of, anyway. Then some new thoughts crept into Leah’s overclocked mind. She realized what had caught the attention of her subconscious about the list of thirty-nine suspects. It was one of the names. Originally, only the surname had pinged because it was an unusual name and she’d heard it twice over the course of days. Delford. Someone on the list had the last name of Delford. And someone else had the last name of Delford: Sally-Anne—Noah’s wife. Shit. No wonder her brain had been performing mental gymnastics to get her attention. The name on the list was Joshua Delford. Joshua. The same name Noah used in his book.

  “Tommy!” Leah yelled. “Wait!” She held up both her palms, letting her gun swing around her finger. “Now, please, put your gun down.” She said this quietly and calmly, but inside her head, pieces were clicking.