The Collector

by Scott Wittenburg

Alan spotted the abandoned Gulf station Marcia had referred to up ahead and slowed down. He drove past it doing around thirty-five, keeping his eyes peeled for Hartford Road. Within another mile he spotted it and took a right-hand turn as directed.

  Checking his odometer, Alan kept his speed down and noted how dark it seemed all of a sudden. The sun typically set around 6:30 or so, yet it already looked like nightfall as he zigzagged through the thick woods lining the road. When he saw the sign for Bentdown Hollow Road, he realized he hadn’t passed a single vehicle or a single residence in the last two miles.

  He swung a left onto Bentdown and slowed down to a crawl, guessing that he would be able to see Branson’s farm any minute. Sure enough, he suddenly saw a tall silo loom over the horizon a short distance ahead and then the barn Marcia had mentioned. He realized that he would be seen if anyone happened to be looking his way and debated where he should park. He braked to a sudden standstill and threw the gearshift into reverse.

  Backing up on the two-lane road, Alan recalled a place he could park unnoticed back near the intersection. He continued in reverse until the top of the grain silo was out of view then stopped, turned the Pilot around and continued driving toward Hartford Road. He took a right and spotted the small clearing along the road he’d seen before and pulled onto it. There was weather-beaten hand-painted sign lying on the ground that read “Fresh Corn.” The clearing had probably been used as a farmer’s market at one time or another. He knew it was risky parking here but it was a chance he would have to take.

  He turned off the engine and grabbed his bag. “How about a walk, girl?” he asked Pan. The dog was out the door the instant he opened it, her tail wagging furiously.

  He had parked the car just in time—any waning daylight was now history. He took out his flashlight and switched it on for a quick moment then off again. He didn’t want to take any chances on being seen by anyone if he could avoid it.

  He headed up Bentdown Hollow Road wondering what he would discover, if anything, at Branson’s place. He had already come to the conclusion that there couldn’t be a more perfect place on earth to stash the girls than in this desolate area. Without a single home in sight and what appeared to be zero traffic flow, Branson could hide a Sherman tank out here and no one would be the wiser. The sheer isolation of the area bolstered his hopes substantially.

  He arrived at the point where he could see the silo protruding up in the night sky and killed the flashlight. Pan was trotting a short distance up ahead, following what was probably the property line of Branson’s land. He spotted a barbed wire fence several yards a head that continued along the road for as far as he could see. A short distance later, Alan reached a rise in the road and could see a farmhouse in the distance, well lit by a couple of floodlights.

  “Slow down, Pan,” he whispered. Pan glanced back and let Alan catch up to her. From that point on, she walked alongside her new master.

  Alan covered another thirty feet and stopped. He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of high-powered binoculars. Bringing them to his eyes, he focused on Branson’s house and looked the area over. The house was a two-story and appeared to be in good condition, as if there had been some renovation recently. Beyond the house was the barn, very large and not far from the silo. He didn’t see any vehicles, making him wonder if Branson was at home. There were lights on in the house, however. Perhaps Branson’s car was in the barn or out of his line of sight from this vantage point.

  Alan stuffed the binoculars back into the bag and resumed walking. Since the farmhouse was a decent distance from the road—at least a hundred yards—he felt he could probably make it all the way there via the road without being seen in the darkness. He wasn’t particularly crazy about the notion of jumping the fence—there was a chance of a watch dog hiding out somewhere just waiting to attack, although he felt confident Pan would give him a heads-up if that were the case.

  After he’d gone another forty yards, he stopped again. He took out his binoculars and trained them on the rear end of a car jutting out just beyond the side of the house. It looked like it could be a Buick.

  So Branson was home after all, or at least it appeared that way. He’d have to move carefully from this point on. If Branson were indeed hiding the girls somewhere on his property, he would sure as hell be keeping an eye out for any uninvited visitors. Particularly since earlier today the chief of police had let his boss know that somebody had accused him of harboring trafficked goods.

  Alan felt a cold chill as he proceeded cautiously. For a moment, he considered the situation at hand and reminded himself again that this was one great big long shot. Taking into account the paper-thin evidence leading up to his being here in the first place, he almost felt the urge to laugh.

  Except this was no laughing matter.

  What had begun as a cryptic email pointing to a suspicious website containing nothing more than a few Photoshopped images of young ballerinas shamelessly copied in the style of Edgar Degas had now led him to Wayneston, West Virginia. To Martin Fowler—the man who had presumably imprisoned a prostitute’s sister and several other victims for the last six months in order to create the images posted on a website that apparently no one ever visited.

  Flimsy, indeed.

  He now knew what made this whole adventure seem almost ludicrous: the word presumably. Most, if not all of this entire case was based on conjecture leading to a single presumption. Was it any wonder why it seemed nearly too impossible to be true?

  Not long from now he would finally discover the truth. Either his hunch had been right all along or he had spent all of this time barking up the wrong tree. But at least he would finally know for certain.

  He continued moving forward at a near crawl. As he drew nearer to Branson’s farmhouse, he could make out the details of the car, which was definitely a Buick. He wondered how he should begin his search for the girls. Poke around the barn and the silo, then move on to the house? He would run the chance of blowing everything if Branson some how caught him lurking around, which would not be a good thing.

  Peek into the windows first, then knock on the door? Use his trusty “ran out of gas down the road” ploy to gain access? This was the most promising route to take, seeing as neither Branson nor Fowler had any idea what he looked like as far as he knew.

  Yeah, that’s what he’d do.

  As he approached Branson’s driveway, he wondered if Branson owned a gun. If that were the case, it could present a real problem in the event that he grew suspicious of his nighttime visitor.

  Pan was still keeping pace at his side and Alan marveled at how well behaved his plucky new pet was. She seemed to have a sense of what was going on and now it was imperative to be quiet.

  He was grateful he’d brought her along.

  A fairly tall hedge ran along the driveway and obscured him from the farmhouse. Alan took advantage of this and picked up his pace until he was only thirty yards from the front of the house. He saw the blue Buick up ahead and noted that it was an older model—the typical boat-sized car so many seniors have an affinity for. This reminded him of Branson’s age and how unlikely it seemed that he would be hiding a bunch of young girls for his boss. It seemed almost too strange to be true—

  Suddenly the porch light came on, bathing the front yard in light. Alan jumped back for cover behind the hedge and crouched down. Pan followed suit.

  He saw the curtain in one of the front porch windows part slightly. The silhouette of a man peered out as Alan held his breath. He wondered if Branson had heard him or if he was waiting for somebody. The man continued looking out for a moment then closed the curtain and disappeared. The porch light remained lit.

  Alan waited a few minutes to be sure Branson didn’t look out again, then walked briskly up the driveway toward the Buick. He crouched down in the area between the car and the side of the house, debating his next move. If Branson was waiting for somebody, he may be better off waiting until the person showed up. On the other hand, Bra
nson may have simply thought he heard something and was now satisfied that it was a false alarm. If that were the case, it would be better to make his move quickly and get this show on the road. The longer he waited, the less likely his plan would hold water.

  He decided to wait ten minutes. And then if nobody showed up, he would proceed with Plan A.

  He moved closer toward the front of the Buick and peeked into the passenger side window. The interior of the car was well lit from the backyard floods. Alan saw nothing inside but a folded newspaper on the passenger seat. He sat down on the driveway between the car and house, resting his back against the brick wall.

  He felt a cold chill and shivered. He petted Pan as she sat patiently on her haunches beside him. He glanced back at the barn and saw that the double doors were closed. He was tempted to go take a look inside but decided against taking the risk. The house first, and then the barn if necessary.

  He checked his watch, waited another five minutes then decided to make his move. If Branson was waiting for somebody, they would have come by now. Or so he hoped. He stood up, took a deep breath and headed toward the porch. He climbed the four wooden steps just loudly enough to seem natural, went up to the door and knocked three times. The sound was almost deafening in the still night air. A moment later, he saw Branson look out the same window that he had before then heard the floorboards creak as he came to the door.

  The door swung open and there stood Branson. The man looked to be about seventy or so, distinguished with snow-white hair and a thin neat moustache. He was wearing a pair of black dress pants, a starched white shirt and looked like he might be getting ready for church. There was a look of surprise and curiosity on his face when he spoke.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Hello. I really hate to bother you but my car ran out of gas about a mile or so down the road. I was wondering if I could borrow your phone.”

  “Well, I guess that would be all right. Have you no cell phone?”

  Alan broke into his finest sheepish grin. “Out of range. Can’t get a single bar on the damn thing!”

  “I see. I’ve had the same problem myself. This isn’t exactly the best place for phone reception, I’ll give you that.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty dead any way you look at it around here. Would you believe I hung around my car for a half hour before I finally started walking, praying for a car to pass by? Didn’t see a one in all that time. Sure glad I found you here—god only knows how far it is to the next house.”

  “Two miles, to be exact. Floyd Gribner owns the next farm over. Anyway, come on in and make your call.”

  “Thanks a million, I appreciate it.”

  Branson opened the door to let him inside.

  “Stay, Pan,” Alan ordered.

  “He may come in. I love dogs.”

  “Oh, thank you. Yeah, she’s a good girl. Only had her for a week or so.”

  “The phone is this way,” Branson said, making a gesture for Alan to follow him toward the rear of the house.

  “Appreciate it. Nice place you have here,” Alan said, impressed by the clean, well-appointed living room they walked past.

  “Thank you. It’s comfortable and quiet—the way I like it.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Only a couple of years, actually. I originally bought this as an investment then decided to go ahead and move into it—to hell with reselling. Pleased that I did, actually. No one around here could afford it anyway.”

  Alan wondered how much the old man was worth. Was working for Fowler his only source of income or was Branson independently wealthy and didn’t really need the job? Something told him that was the case. Branson had a very distinctive, refined countenance that hinted at someone who had never been without money in his entire life.

  So if he didn’t need the money, then why was he serving as Martin Fowler’s lackey? Was there more to the picture than meets the eye? Could they be partners—or lovers?

  They entered a den that was large and comfortably furnished in leather. Branson led the way over to an end table and pointed at the phone.

  “There it is. I’ll let you make your call privately, uh—”

  “Jarells. Cliff Jarells,” Alan said.

  “I will return in a moment, Mr. Jarells.”

  “Thanks.”

  Branson turned and left the room. Alan picked up the phone, dialed a number, then pressed the talk button. He looked around the room for a moment and then began his imaginary conversation.

  “Hello? Uh, yeah, I ran out of gas out here in the middle of nowhere and wonder if you could send somebody to help me out. What? Oh, okay. Just a second and I’ll give it to you.”

  He pulled out his billfold, found the bogus AAA card and read off the number.

  “Yes, I can hold.”

  Pan suddenly started growling. Alan looked toward the doorway and saw Branson standing there pointing a large caliber handgun at him.

  “You need to hang up that phone now, sir,” Branson said. The man was cool as a cucumber and spoke in an affected cordial tone of voice.

  “What the hell—?” Alan exclaimed.

  “Hang up the phone—now!”

  Alan did as he was ordered. Pan continued to growl and for a moment Alan thought he might rush at the man who was threatening his master.

  “Easy, Pan,” he said, grasping Pan by his collar.

  “Good thinking, Mr. Swansea. The last thing I want is to have to injure this beautiful animal.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Let’s just say that I know enough about you and leave it at that. I have been informed that you might show up and have orders to detain you in that event.”

  “And why must you do that, may I ask? I haven’t done anything but request to use your phone.”

  “It’s not about what you have already done, Mr. Swansea. It is what you intend to do.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I think we both already know the answer to that. Now, I’d like for you and your pet to go with me. Leave the bag here.”

  Branson brandished the gun that Alan now recognized as a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum—Dirty Harry’s preferred bad guy killer. The choice of firearm seemed odd, considering its owner. Branson stepped aside and made a gesture toward the doorway. Alan comforted Pan until he felt he could let go of her collar and avoid getting herself killed. Then he headed toward the door.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, okay?” Alan said. “I don’t know why you are doing this but I can assure you that you’re setting yourself up for some serious trouble with the law. The least you can do is tell me who you got your orders from.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Mr. Swansea. You can see that I am the one holding a gun. My job is not to sit around and make idle conversation with you but to see that you are kept at bay until some other visitors arrive. Now don’t get me aggravated enough to have to use this thing or we will both regret it, I should think.”

  They stepped into the hallway and Branson pointed the gun toward the rear of the house. “That way,” he ordered.

  Alan walked down the hall past a utility room and into the kitchen. Branson stepped past him, opened a door and flipped on a light switch. “Down these stairs.”

  Alan peered down the stairs at the cellar and said, “I think you’re making a big mistake. Who ever is telling you to do this is involving you in something that could put you behind bars for a very long time. Have you thought about that?”

  Branson smiled. “It never crossed my mind. Down you go.”

  Alan gestured for Pan to follow him down that stairs. He had gone down two steps before Branson closed the door. The next thing he heard was the sound of a deadbolt sliding home.