Noah's Rainy Day

by Sandra Brannan

  Streeter wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “I have to be out here.”

  I thought he would send me back inside, reminding me this case had just become a conflict of interest for me. I didn’t think I could take it if he pulled me off the case. We looked at each other for a long moment. His blue eyes with a soft greenish tint to them were filled with understanding, not judgment or pity.

  “We’re going inside,” Streeter said to Knapp.

  Somehow, I knew Streeter would understood what I felt, what I was going through in a situation this personal. And he knew I had to follow this through to the end. He knew I needed him to bend the rules for me.

  “Do you really think he’ll come back?”

  “Eventually. He doesn’t know we’re onto him about little Max. He’ll come back and have some alibi for his whereabouts tonight that explains why he had nothing to do with Noah’s disappearance. Remember what Jack described? He’s bold, above the law. He thinks we’re too stupid to figure this out.”

  “I hope you’re right. It’s been two hours since Noah was taken. And no one has seen Fletcher’s car. It’s too late, isn’t it?”

  Streeter wrapped his arms around me. I couldn’t handle this. Noah was everything to me. I couldn’t imagine a worse pain, even if he wasn’t my own flesh and blood. And I understood why Jack refused to be here, wanted to stay with Chief Gates in case they found Fletcher. He couldn’t bear to see the pain in my sister’s eyes, in Gabriel’s face, or in mine.

  “Don’t think that way, Liv,” Streeter was saying, holding me in his arms, the horrors of the world falling away under his protection. “He’ll be back. In the meantime, Tony has every officer in the city out looking for his car.”

  To Agent Knapp, Streeter said, “Park across the street at that house. Give us a heads-up if you spot Fletcher’s car. Don’t let him get away if he spots you or Mills. Hopefully he won’t even notice you two and he’ll drive right into the garage where we’ll be waiting for him.”

  Knapp grinned and nodded once as he rolled up the window. It was nearly 10:30 and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

  Streeter released me and hitched his thumb toward the house, saying, “Ready to see what Fletcher is all about?”

  “Not really,” I answered honestly. I would never be comfortable going into that monster’s den. Worse, he was a monster who had my defenseless nephew at his mercy. I sighed, “But thanks for letting me stay on the case. Let’s go.”

  Phil Kelleher had already picked the locks on the front door and was waiting for Streeter’s instructions.

  “Careful, now. If he thought we were on to him, the house could be booby-trapped,” Streeter said.

  Guns drawn, we entered through the front door.

  My first impression was of the overwhelmingly stuffy and pungent odor that hung in the air. It was sweet and acrid at the same time. I was not at all familiar with this odor but thought for some reason I should be.

  “What the hell is that smell?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Streeter answered, searching the living room, moving quickly through the kitchen and every room on the main floor.

  “Smells like a cross between Vaseline and body odor,” I answered, wrinkling my nose in disgust.

  “Close.”

  I got it. It was the smell of body odor, Vaseline, and semen. I thought I was going to lose it. If I did, surely Streeter would send me back to my sister’s house to wait this out. I took a deep breath and moved forward. I had to focus on little Max and the monster, work the case, and pretend Noah wasn’t involved.

  “And bleach. Do you all smell bleach?” I asked, worried that we might be too late.

  Streeter cut a look in my direction as he moved to the base of the stairs, shaking his head to indicate the main floor was unoccupied, clear. A faint, reassuring curl to his lip appeared. He understood that I was working hard to be an agent, not an aunt.

  The house was decorated in burnt oranges and avocado greens, not a contemporary décor, but outdated and tired. The furniture was used and abused, chairs stained, table warped, and sofa damaged and sagging.

  We walked up the stairs and into the two small bedrooms and bath, careful not to touch a thing since nothing had been dusted for prints yet or scanned for fluids. The first bedroom on the right was definitely Jason Fletcher’s. It had a double bed, bedding bunched in a pile, and a single dresser with a thirteen-inch TV on top, with a hanger sticking out the top wadded with aluminum foil. No cable. The walls were blank except for a crucifix and a picture of a man and woman, presumably Fletcher’s parents. They looked like middle-class Americans, white-bread, God-fearing folks. The closet door was open and the clothes were askew. It looked like a bachelor’s bedroom.

  The bathroom was at the top of the stairs and was quite unremarkable—tub and shower, commode and sink. The wallpaper was white with gold and orange butterflies, yellowing with age and peeling away at the seams.

  The second bedroom was small: another double bed and a small lamp beside the bed. The closet and drawers were closed, and everything was neat and tidy, except for some toys scattered on the floor. My gut wrenched for poor little Max. I looked out the window and saw Noah’s room across the short stretch of lawns, which were separated by a wooden-slat fence between the houses.

  “Little Max stayed in this room,” I said. “Noah must have seen the boy yesterday. That’s what he was probably trying to tell Emma and my sister.”

  And I noticed he’d made his bed, tried to clean up his room before he left, the covers rumpled as if a child had made it, not an adult.

  I said, “He’s not planning on bringing little Max back, is he?”

  Streeter and Phil exchanged a look.

  My heart sank. I swallowed hard so I wouldn’t cry. Work, damn it! My eyes flew to the window, imagining a deep breath of fresh air.

  I pointed out the window to the second floor of the house next door, my sister’s house. “Gabriel installed that picture window so Noah could lie on the floor and see the outdoors. He loves the outdoors,” I said with a tremble in my voice.

  Streeter stepped beside me. “He probably did see little Max. And probably saw Jason Fletcher, too. Maybe Fletcher thought he saw too much, thought removing him as a witness might be worth the risk of a second abduction.”

  “Noah knew all along. He was trying to tell us.”

  “But Fletcher wouldn’t know he couldn’t talk, would he?”

  “Not according to Frances. The neighbor knew nothing about them. I don’t even think he knew Noah had cerebral palsy.”

  “Come on,” Streeter said and led me down the stairs.

  The upstairs and main floor cleared, we descended the stairs. Halfway down, we both froze midstride. The basement was dark. Kelleher found a switch, illuminating a horrifying room.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped, and saw my every nightmare come to life.

  CHAPTER 54

  THE BASEMENT WAS ONE big room filled with different sets and backdrops, such as a hospital room, a school room, a Western village, a farm. Props and costumes were everywhere, organized in piles and hanging from dozens of coat racks.

  “Sometimes I wonder if there is a God on days like this. When I get a glimpse inside the hell of people like Fletcher,” Streeter said coolly. He began his descent down the stairs.

  “What the hell is this place? Is this what I think it is?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Streeter answered simply.

  “Twisted,” I said. Jason Fletcher was the devil himself.

  “You wouldn’t believe the crap we found in this dump,” Special Agent Kelleher said into his radio. He waved the riding crop and handcuffs above his head.

  I added, “This place gives me the willies. How much longer do we have to stay down here?”

  “Depends,” Streeter said. “What have you found so far?”

  “What do you want? This place is crawling in filth,” Kelleher said. “Do y
ou see all these sets? There are boxes and boxes of props and costumes—policemen, firemen, cowboys, superheroes, animals—you name it, he’s got it. It’s a regular dress rehearsal for a Village People’s costume party. The costumes are of all sizes and shapes, most of them folded and boxed. The ones that were crumpled in the corner were for a child.”

  “Little Max’s size?” Streeter asked.

  Kelleher nodded.

  “Bag it and tag it.”

  “And there’s a darkroom over there.” I pointed to the room behind us.

  “We’ll need the photographers in here, the crime scene techs to comb this place. Thoroughly. This isn’t Fletcher’s first time.” Streeter was getting pissed, I could tell. His gravelly voice usually sounded like he had gargled with barbed wire, but at the moment, it was eerily low and controlled.

  My unspoken thoughts were dark. I had a feeling that we were too late. A knot formed in my stomach and a lump rose in my throat. At least Noah hadn’t been exposed to this.

  “You okay?” Streeter whispered.

  I nodded too emphatically, hoping to shake out all the images. I had to find Noah. I had to help little Max. My mind raced. “Where did he take them? And why would he grab a helpless boy with severe cerebral palsy from the car? Why? What is he up to? The heartless bastard.”

  Streeter held me again. “Why don’t you go see how your sister’s doing?”

  “Just tell me why.”

  “Because he thought Noah saw something, knew something, was a witness to something.”

  I appreciated Streeter’s honesty. Although I already knew the answer and the implication that Noah was in as much danger as little Max, I had to hear it spoken. I needed to hear it so I could move on and be an effective investigator.

  Impossible.

  “The smell is even worse down here.”

  He nodded. As he started to make his way through the backdrops, the toe of Streeter’s boot caught on a leather strap and he lost his balance, falling to the floor onto one knee.

  Kelleher called out to him, “You okay, Streeter?”

  Streeter pulled on the leather strap that had entangled his boot and pulled up a cat-of-nine-tails. He answered gingerly, “No, I’m not okay. I’ve fallen in a sewer and I’m in up to my chin.”

  Just as he pushed himself up from the floor, Streeter hesitated. I saw him fishing around for something under the circus props. He reached beneath the edge of the canvas and pulled out a small dirty sock. We stared at his find in disbelief as Streeter held it by a fraction of the fabric, pinched delicately between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  As he rose to his feet, Streeter said, “Appears Fletcher missed something.”

  The child’s sock was soiled at the bottom. Kelleher bagged and tagged the sock as evidence. We searched the area for its mate without any luck.

  Streeter’s cell phone startled us.

  “Streeter, this is Tony.”

  “What’s up?”

  Streeter put Tony on speaker so Phil and I could hear.

  “The Idaho Springs Sheriff’s Department just called. An off-duty deputy sheriff spotted Fletcher’s two-tone station wagon driving the back roads in an isolated camping area fifteen miles north of the Winter Park ski resort. He said that he had not been aware of the APB on Fletcher at the time, but recognized the partial plate number and description of the vehicle when he returned from his cross-country ski outing. The only reason he remembered Fletcher’s wagon was because he had only seen cars around that day camp area in the summer months. The deputy sheriff thought it was odd that a vehicle was driving around in such an isolated area this time of year.”

  My heart raced.

  “Thank God for small favors,” Streeter answered, and gave me the “okay” sign.

  “We sent a car up to check it out and they said Fletcher’s wagon is no longer out there,” Gates said. “I assume he’s headed back home, Streeter. Are your guys still at his house?”

  Please don’t let it be too late, I prayed.

  “You’re talking to one of them,” Streeter replied.

  “Don’t do something foolish, Streeter,” Gates demanded. “Aren’t you getting close to retirement, bud?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Careful now,” Gates answered.

  “Tony, see what you can do about rounding up volunteers to comb the campground area right away. If Fletcher comes back alone, we need to know exactly where he’s been. Have whoever is first on the scene diagram the prints in the snow.”

  I shivered at an unwelcome image. I couldn’t handle seeing Noah in the snow. Or little Max. The thought, the smells, it was all too much. I had to get a grip. I felt the room close in on me and I sat down hard on a pile of props.

  Kelleher and Streeter were staring at me. My vision was starting to come back. I took a deep breath, wiped my face, and pulled myself up from the floor.

  Streeter didn’t bother to cover the phone when he said, “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  Gates said, “What?”

  “Nothing. Liv just blacked out for a second. I’ll explain later.”

  Gates added, “Let’s just hope it doesn’t start snowing again. If we’re lucky, we can just follow his tracks in the snow.”

  “Good thought, friend. I’ll round up a few of our agents and send them your way. Liv has Beulah next door and we can be up in less than an hour, depending on what happens with Fletcher. You are headed that way, aren’t you?”

  “Definitely,” Gates answered. “I’ll take responsibility for the search until you get there.”

  “Thanks,” Streeter responded. “But Tony, it may be awhile if we get our hands on Fletcher. Leave some instructions for us on how to get to the campground site at the Idaho Springs office.”

  “No problem,” Gates said. “Call me as soon as you can, if you get Fletcher.”

  “You got it. And call me if you see any sign of either boy.” Streeter hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket just as his radio sounded.

  It was Agent Kyle Mills.

  “I’ve got a line on Fletcher. He’s heading east on Chaparral.”

  There was a short pause.

  Streeter shouted, “Get into position.”

  CHAPTER 55

  AS THE THREE OF us ran up the stairs, Mills’s voice said, “He did not see me. He’s headed your way, Knapp.”

  Streeter keyed his radio, “Mills, were the kids with him?”

  “Didn’t see them.”

  Streeter let out a long breath.

  I offered hopefully, “They might be lying down. Sleeping or resting.”

  “Stand ready inside this door with Kelleher. Turn off your radios once you hear the garage door open, got it?” Streeter stepped into the dark garage by himself.

  Steve Knapp’s voice sounded over the radio. “Got him. He’s heading this way. I’m across the street in the neighbor’s driveway.”

  “Once the garage door goes down, you two get your cars into position quickly,” Streeter commanded.

  “Got it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I saw the headlights of Fletcher’s station wagon sweep across the darkened living room and heard the automatic garage door opening. As I heard his vehicle enter, I noticed the light growing from beneath the crack of the door to the garage.

  “For God’s sake, people, hold your fire if you can. We still don’t know where the kids are. Radios off.”

  We switched our radios off as ordered so that Fletcher would not hear any static. We were all armed, weapons drawn.

  I heard the garage door lowering just as Fletcher turned off the engine of his car. The light seeping through the crack disappeared as his headlights dimmed. The bulb in the automatic garage door must be out, I thought, which would make it even harder for the agents in the garage to see what Fletcher was up to. From my squatting position inside the house at the door to the garage, I could hear the pinging noise of the overheated engine in the deafening silence. I heard no
thing. Fletcher hadn’t opened the door. He must have been sitting behind the wheel of his car in the garage. For some reason, he was not getting out.

  My heart and mind raced. I wanted to open the door and shoot the bastard. Make him pay. I wondered if Fletcher sensed our presence, noticed something out of place. I worried about Streeter alone in the garage with Fletcher. I suspected Fletcher was about to make a run for freedom and prayed that Knapp and Mills were slowly and quietly getting into position to block his exit from the garage.

  I resisted the urge to rush through the door and shoot Fletcher in the gut. Just when I thought I’d waited an eternity, I heard the driver’s door open and saw a faint light, which I imagined was the dome light flicking on in the otherwise pitch-black garage, giving Streeter a clear look into the car. I heard Fletcher clear his nose to gather the excess saliva and then heard him spit on the floor.

  I grimaced. Disgusting bastard. Why not just shoot him now and rid the world of the cockroach?

  Fletcher slammed the door of his station wagon and walked slowly around the vehicle to the kitchen door. The rubber soles of his wet snow boots squeaked on the concrete with every heavy step. I strained to hear noises from the car—stirring, yawning, or any sound that might be coming from an awakening boy or my scared nephew. I heard nothing beyond the labored breathing and squeaky steps of Jason Fletcher. When the footsteps were only a few feet from where Phil and I crouched near the door, the bright lights of the fluorescent bulbs in the garage hummed to life, light seeping through the wide crack into the dark space where we were waiting. Fletcher breathed heavily as he worked his key in the door and twisted the cold knob in his pudgy hand.

  As he opened the door, Phil and I leveled our guns at his face and Streeter sprang from his hiding place in the garage. Our shouts of “Freeze!” rang out in chorus. Streeter had a gun to the back of Fletcher’s head. Fletcher’s pudgy, pocked cheeks oozed with perspiration.

  I moved a step closer, pressing the barrel of my gun against his cheek.

  “Where’s Noah?” I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice.