Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  I shifted the phone to my other hand and reached for Wilco’s leash. It was gone. Wilco was gone. Crap! He’d taken off again.

  This is the last thing I need right now.

  I got off the phone with Pusser and searched for him. I cursed myself. I should have bought that vibration collar I’d seen online for out in the field, or times like this when he wandered away. I could simply press a button and zap him into obedience. But a couple hundred bucks had seemed like too much to spend. What was that anyway? Two days, maybe three of toilet scrubbing? I bit back a chuckle. Forget it, Brynn. It ain’t gonna happen. Shouldn’t need it anyway, if my dog would just do as he’s supposed to do.

  A cool breeze swept over me; I pulled my sweater tighter and circled my vehicle, glancing under the carriage. Wilco wasn’t there. Then I caught sight of a familiar bushy tail poking out from behind a storage building set back by the tree line—a Quonset hut that rose from the earth into a rusty half-circular arc of corrugated green metal. I headed over there, glad to have found him and eager to get on my way. But any relief I felt melted away as I drew closer. I stopped, my feet rooting in horror as I watched my dog working across the ground. That hitch in his tail, the way his ears perked forward and his nose quivered, first working the ground, then the air—it all indicated one thing:

  Wilco smelled death.

  Not Meg! God, please . . . I broke into a jog, heading his way, then pulled up short, remembering not to interfere with his work. He was moving at a good pace now, zigzagging along the edge of the woods. I shifted from foot to foot. The burden of waiting for him to finish his task was becoming nearly unbearable.

  Maybe he’d hit on a rotting rodent or a larger animal. This was an animal clinic, after all. Things happen. Animals die. Their remains need to be disposed of. How was that done anyway? Cremation? But this is a small country operation. Would the doctor have a crematory, or . . . my eyes skimmed the nearby tree line. The woods, the same woods that ran for miles along this mountainside, from Bone Gap down to McCreary. Cove woods was the scientific term—a dense almost tropical foliage in the summer—which even at this time of the year made for a nearly impenetrable covering and an easy dumping ground. Sure, that’s it. Styles probably buried animals back there. Nothing wrong with that. And the scent of all those animals. . . well, it would be overwhelming to Wilco’s several hundred olfactory cells. No wonder he was going crazy.

  As I looked again at my working companion, an automatic switch turned on in my mind. It was a transformation I’d experienced with every search: a numbed resolve as my brain mapped the terrain, planning potential routes that would take us to “most likely” sites while avoiding inherent danger. Debris-strewn buildings had been the worst, with every step a potential danger to my faithful companion as he relentlessly searched. Even open areas posed dangers; scorching desert winds had scrubbed my skin like sandpaper, but Wilco never flinched. How many scent trails had we followed in the past, him in the lead, me in command of our safety?

  Memories of one search sprang to mind: a camel’s decaying carcass, flies swarming thick around it. Wilco had passed its fetor without a glance.

  Now another chill dug into my soul.

  Wilco never reacted to the scent of a dead animal.

  Or the scent of a live human.

  He was trained for cadavers—only for the death stench of human decay.

  Not Meg. Not Meg. Not Meg . . .

  I continued watching as Wilco moved on to the storage shed, his nose working the weed-covered edges. Parts of the shed walls were rusted and jagged and formed a useless barrier against weather and whatever rodents might wish to burrow their way inside. The north side was covered with blackish-green speckles of mildew. The whole thing looked like it was on the verge of collapse. I lost sight of Wilco as he darted around the corner, only to return a second later and sniff some more at the large double garage door. He hesitated, pawed at the bottom edge, and growled. He was clearly agitated. I crossed to him and squatted down, my vision of sight now level with his.

  That’s when I saw the tracks.

  Parallel lines, with a three- to four-foot tire stance, leading up to and disappearing under the garage door. I’d seen these tracks before, across desert sands and war-engulfed terrain. Made by government-issued all-terrain vehicles, the very same type that I’d ridden in and used to transport recovered human remains. Corpse wagons, we called them—filled to the brim with dead soldiers, whole and in pieces, making their last journey back to base camp.

  Corpse wagons.

  Springing to my feet, I placed my palms flat against the garage door and pushed upward. It creaked open, about a foot off the ground. Wilco was pacing now, running his nose along the outer edges of the barely raised door, stopping here and there to bark at me. “Get inside, get inside,” he seemed to say. My mind zinged back and forth, vacillating between fear and panic, dread and urgency. I bent, put my knees into it, and hefted the door a couple feet higher.

  Wilco bolted inside. I crouched down and followed, the back of my sweater snagging on the rough metal as I maneuvered underneath. It was dark inside and smelled like wet cardboard and gasoline and something coppery sweet.

  Blood.

  I stood stock still, waiting for my eyes to adjust. As I suspected, a four-wheeler sat in the middle of the dirt floor. Then I saw Wilco bouncing on his back leg and clawing at the side of the vehicle. He was clamoring to get inside, to where the scent must’ve been the strongest. His leash trailed behind him. I grabbed it, led him safely away from ATV, and tethered him to the leg of one of the workbenches that lined the far wall of the shed. Once he was secured, I quickly rewarded him with a few long strokes before turning back to investigate further.

  The blood smell was intense, even to my non-canine nose. I turned on my phone and activated my flashlight app, shining it around the interior of the vehicle. A dark stain smeared the entire back cargo box of the ATV, streaking the metal sides and the back of the bench seat. The natural assumption would be that an injured animal had been transported in this vehicle. But Wilco’s nose told me differently.

  This was human blood.

  My limbs trembled. Sourness burned the back of my throat. Then my phone light caught something that set panic coursing through my veins—long strands of red hair wrapped around a bolt in the floorboard. My mother’s hair? Sheila’s? Meg’s?

  And there was something else. Just on the edge of my awareness, like a nearly invisible spider’s thread that connected one thing to another, but what? I forced fear aside and commanded my brain to enter that dark place.

  My vision narrowed, fading along the edges and intensifying on the hair—long, wavy strands of red hair. I recalled sitting across from Meg at the diner the day before, watching as she’d tucked a loose strand of her beautiful hair behind her ear, hair as curly as these strands, but there was something else . . . I closed my eyes and saw it: the light from the nearby window catching on the stone of her engagement ring.

  I’d seen that ring before. In Doogan’s kitchen. It was the same ring his sister wore in the photo hanging on his fridge. Tendrils of white gold, almost a filigree, at the sides of a square-cut diamond.

  I grabbed for the edge of the vehicle, steadying myself as the facts permeated my shock-racked mind. Not Dub. Not Al. But Eamon. Eamon had access to the ketamine. Eamon had access to this ATV.

  And Eamon had access to Meg.

  A sudden growl from Wilco jerked me back to the present. Wilco? I turned his way, and something dark flashed in the corner of my vision. I flinched, grabbed for my knife. Not there! I raised my hand to strike out, but too late. The sharp stab of a needle penetrated my shoulder. I flung my arm up and back to fight, but heat oozed through it, and my arm crumpled, useless. I tried to turn, but the burn snaked through my limbs, liquefied my muscles. My knees buckled, and I plunged forward into darkness.

  CHAPTER 17

  I came to facedown on a wood floor with my hands bound behind my back. Razor-like plas
tic ties gashed my wrists. Blood trickled onto my palms, turning them both sticky and slick at the same time. Yet my brain didn’t register pain. Not yet. The aftereffects of the drug probably still coursing through my system.

  Sounds were distant and muffled, but I heard voices coming from somewhere . . . deep and low . . . masculine . . . agitated . . . I didn’t really care. I was wrapped in a warm, drug-infused cocoon. My body was loose, relaxed, my mind free-floating, a welcome respite from the normal zing of anxiety that undercut my every sober moment. I gave into the feeling, glad for the comfort. I sank lower and lower . . . happy to forget about everything . . .

  Meg. Where’s Meg? I’ve got to find Meg.

  I forced open my swollen eyelids and turned my head toward the voices, my mouth brushing against the filthy floor. Dirt and dried bug parts and God knew what else stuck to my lips like lint to masking tape. I squinted at my surroundings. I was alone, in some sort of old shack converted into a drug lab. A shop light hung by chains over a wooden table lined with butane-fueled torches, beakers, and ceramic bowls, pots, mixing and measuring supplies. Empty glass vials littered the top of the table next to a small microwave. There was a gas-powered generator in the corner of the room. It hummed softly. The air smelled hot and strangely acidic and a little like an oily gas station. Again, low murmurs of voices came from outside the thin walls of the shack—somewhat muted, but distinctly male and Hispanic. I knew those voices. The men from the woods. Cartel, Pusser had assumed, ruthless and heavily armed.

  Then another voice. Male also. But without the Spanish accent. Eamon. So Eamon was mixed up with a Mexican drug cartel.

  My body broke into a cold sweat. Time was limited. Think. Think!

  I tried to turn over, but my muscles were like warm Jello. Squeezing my eyes tightly, I focused my efforts. Side to side, side to side . . . finally I landed on my back, biting back a cry as my weight crushed against my bound wrists. Pain shot through my forearms up through my neck and radiated throughout my body.

  Good! Pain is good. The drug is wearing off.

  Folding my legs, I pressed upward to a seated position and searched for anything to use as a weapon. But my gaze hit on hair. Red and curly and protruding from under a tarp in the corner of the room. Meg’s hair!

  Meg. I have to help Meg.

  Folding my body, I worked my hands down over my buttocks. My shoulders strained and nearly pulled from their sockets. My dress was bunched, the fabric hindering my movement. The irony hit me—wearing a dress for my mother’s funeral and now dressed for my own.

  No! Not my own, but Eamon’s. He’d pay for what he’d done to Meg.

  I wriggled until my wrists slid over the back of my bare thighs. A couple more bends, some twisting, and my hands were in front of my body. Exhausted, I fell back to the floor, closed my eyes, and drifted back to the warmth and comfort of the drug . . .

  Come on, Brynn. You’re almost there.

  I worked back up to my knees, then to my feet, searching the tables for something to use to cut my ties. Nothing. Nothing but drug-making equipment and none of it sharp enough to cut plastic.

  My eyes darted back and forth, frantically searching, searching. . . then my gaze caught on a knife lying on top of a stack of boxes in the corner of the room. I hurried over and picked it up with my bound hands. It fell to the ground with a ping. I glanced at the door. The voices were still talking. I crumpled to my knees, picked up the knife again, and rocked back onto my bottom. I positioned the handle between my feet and frantically sawed the plastic back and forth over the blade.

  Come on . . . come on!

  It wasn’t working. The ties needed to be tauter. Time was running out.

  Determined, I braced my wrists as far apart as I could, forcing the tie to cut deeper into my flesh. I grimaced from the pain as the plastic tie tightened between them. I ran it over the blade again. Back and forth, back and forth. My fingers swelled and tingled. Blood now flowed freely from large gashes around my wrists. Tears burned my cheeks.

  Outside, an engine roared to life. Someone shouted in Spanish. The voices grew louder, more animated.

  If I don’t free my hands, I’m as good as dead.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Come on . . . break! I bit my lower lip and sawed harder. Snap! Cool air rushed over my raw wounds. I stared incredulously at my liberated hands. I’m free!

  A sound outside the shack’s door jerked me back to reality. Eamon? The Mexicans? My throat constricted with fear.

  I slid the knife into my boot, snatched up the broken pieces of zip tie and dove back to the floor, clasping my hands behind my back and closing my eyes just as the door opened. I kept my eyes closed. Noises penetrated the stillness: footsteps thudding against the wood floor under my ear; behind me, the clinking of glass shoved aside; the thunk of something heavy hitting the table. A click. The sound of fanning money. A low, barely audible chuckle. Another click. Then footsteps again. They came closer. Closer and closer until I felt someone standing directly over me. My heart hammered against my ribs. I forced my mind elsewhere.

  Stay still. Stay still.

  The footsteps retreated. Relief washed over me.

  Then I heard the scraping sound of the tarp against the floor. Slowly, I raised one eyelid.

  It wasn’t Eamon moving about the shack, but Styles. Styles?

  I blinked as he bent down and peeled back the tarp. There were two bodies: Meg and Eamon. They lay next to each other, both facedown, his blood-crusted arm draped over her body. Meg’s face was turned toward me, and except for the paleness of her skin, she looked peaceful. Her eyes were closed, her head resting in the crook of one of her arms, the other arm protectively tucked under her body. Looking at her, I could almost believe she was simply asleep.

  Then Styles jerked her leg, pulled her from Eamon’s embrace, and rolled her belly up. He slid the engagement ring from her finger, pocketed it, and dropped her arm. It hit the floor like dead weight.

  Dead weight.

  Please no ... not Meg . . . Memories flooded my mind: her standing beside me, unafraid, in schoolyard confrontations; her lilting laugh; her infectious optimism; how she twirled her crimson ringlets around her finger . . . our last fight. Cries threatened to escape my throat. I swallowed the agony rising within me and felt the cold blade in my boot. Styles was going to pay for this.

  My inner monster swelled. I struggled to temper it. Wait. Wait for the right opportunity.

  Styles moved quickly now, his back to me. He extracted a pistol from his waistband, wiped it clean, and placed it in Eamon’s hand. He readjusted it twice. He was setting a scene. A scene that would frame Eamon for three murders: Meg, Sheila, and my mother.

  Patience, Brynn. Wait.

  Styles was too close to the gun and too far from me. I’d be dead before I reached him.

  He stopped, shifted his stance, and turned my way. I quickly shut my eyes. His footsteps thumped closer, closer, then he passed by me. A few seconds later, I heard another noise. A faint hissing. This time from across the room. An odor, like rotten eggs, filled the air. I dared a look. Styles was opening the valves on the propane tanks. What . . . ?

  He’s is going to blow up the place!

  Time was running out.

  I rose from my position, forcing my limbs to comply, but two steps in and Styles’s head jerked my way. We faced off. Surprise flashed in his eyes, then rage. Gone was the gentle, caring country doctor who’d treated my dog. His eyes blazed, his nostrils flared, and every ounce of me shivered from the evil that exuded from him.

  “Hello, Brynn.” He moved toward a briefcase on the table.

  I took a step forward. “You’re a drug dealer. And a killer.” Five more yards. That’s all I needed. He shrugged, disinterested. I had to distract him, keep him talking. “Did you kill my mother too?”

  His lips twitched. “We were old friends, your mother and me.”

  “Screw you, Styles. My mother would never be friends with you.”

&n
bsp; His eyes grew flat. “You sure about that? We all grew up together, you know. Mary, Billy, and me, friends one and all.” He sneered.

  Billy. My mother’s boyfriend. My father. Murdered all those years ago. And then my mother, afraid for her life had run—from Styles. “You killed her. And Sheila Costello. Why?” My voice caught. “And . . . and Meg.”

  “Meg?” His gaze slid to the tarp. “I did no such thing. Your cousin isn’t dead.” He looked back at me, his eyes glistening. “Not yet.”

  I gasped and turned toward my cousin’s body. Not dead? I looked closer. Could it really be that she’s not dead?

  The pinging sound of a microwave drew my focus back to where Styles was setting the timer on the microwave. What’s he doing? I looked closer. There was a butane cylinder inside the microwave. Butane and microwaves equaled the perfect recipe for a small bomb. I’d seen it before, in my explosive breaching course. Styles must have researched this. He’d planned this all along to hide evidence of his drug scheme.

  It’d take about twenty seconds for the microwave to break down the outer cylinder of the canister, releasing the gasses and causing a small explosion, a catalyst for the massive one to follow. With propane already thick in the air, we’d blow sky-high.

  Styles had set the timer for thirty seconds, his finger moving for the START button.

  “Stop!” I lunged forward and knocked him in the back. We hit the ground hard. In the background, I heard the sound of the running microwave. He’d turned it on!

  I raised up, went for the microwave, but out of nowhere, Styles’s elbow flew at my face. The sickening crack of bone on bone echoed through my head. I sank back down. The room swam before my eyes. I blinked. Styles was on his feet now and halfway to the door.

  The microwave!

  I stood again, then saw a dozen or more tangled cords behind the table plugged into a large power strip that led to the generator. I scurried on all fours, grabbed the entire bunch, and ripped them from the receptor.