by D E Dennis
Michael held up his hands. “Wait, no. I—”
“No?” She drew herself up to her full height. “I told you this would happen, Michael. We’ll need to put a protective detail on—”
“Michael?”
Their heads swiveled around. Hazel approached them, hugging herself tightly. The romp in the fountain might not have been the best idea.
“Michael, can we go home now?”
Samira’s head slowly turned back to him. “Michael,” she said, voice strangely calm. “Who is that?”
He gulped. “That’s— That’s— That is— Um...”
Hazel ran up to him and threw her arms around him. She burrowed into his side. “I’m freezing and I can’t stand being near him. Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay, Hazel. I was just talking to Samira. Making sure Mrs. Engelbert will be okay.”
“Samira? You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Samira said, face going blank. “I’m Michael’s former fiancée, and you are?”
Hazel’s grip tightened. “I’m his girlfriend, Hazel Antarr. Nice to meet you.”
She inclined her head. “And you. Well, you two weren’t involved in the incident, so you’re free to go. I’ll get in touch if I have any more questions.”
She turned her back to him and strode off without another word.
“Mira, wait.”
She didn’t slow down.
Michael let Hazel pull him away, chest tightening with every step. Monica’s words ringing in his ears.
“You don’t get an infinite number of chances, Michael.”
HUDDLED AGAINST THE tree, he let out a whimper when a shuffling to his right alerted him to the presence of another living creature.
He squeezed his eyes shut, burying into the rough bark, and pulled his thin coat tighter. He didn’t bother to look and see what it was. Night had fallen and a darkness so absolute had descended on the woods.
Overgrown, tangled branches blocked out the scant glow of the stars and he could not see his hand if he held it out in front of himself.
“Mom!?” he sobbed. “Mom, where are you?! Help me!”
Cowering against that tree, he cried and cried until he fell into an exhausted sleep, surrounded by all the creatures silently circling him in the dark.
Michael jerked, eyes flying open. Clutching his pounding chest, he sucked in deep lungfuls of air, breathing until his heart slowed.
When his mind clear and the last traces of fear vanished, Michael got out of bed, brushed his teeth, and put on his running clothes. He ran his long route, passing the town square which had suddenly lost its glamour and ran all the way to Siren Woods, which now seemed even more menacing than before.
He skidded to a stop at the end of the sidewalk. He stood, staring it down, then took a step. Then another. Then a couple more.
Body tense all over, nails digging into his palms hard enough to hurt, he walked to the tree line, and hesitating for only a moment, he stepped through...
...then promptly spun around and raced out.
He jogged back into town, avoiding the square entirely, and kept running until he was home.
“SO, WHAT ARE WE UP to today, bro?” Monica said as she trudged into the office an hour later. She headed straight for the coffee he set out.
He roused himself, firmly placing the events of the morning from his mind. “We’re speaking to Antarr,” he announced. “Today. Right now. This has gone on long enough.”
Monica reemerged with a mug in hand. “I had a feeling you’d say that. I already packed my Taser.”
“Good.” He got to his feet. “Finish your coffee and we’ll go.”
“Hold on, Michael,” she said putting up a hand. “Antarr has shown his determination to stay put despite the ire of an entire town. He’s clearly not going anywhere any time soon, so we don’t need to rush off. Sit down. We need to make a plan.”
Grudgingly, Michael sat. “We have a plan. You’ll handle the questioning. I’ll handle the reading. We’ll find out where he was the night Harper was killed and dig up whatever she found on him.”
“But first we—”
“Make sure someone knows where we are. You can call Samira right now. Fill her in.”
“Me call Samira?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Why not you?”
“No reason,” he replied, shrugging.
“Michael,” she sang.
He winced.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Sighing, he spilled. “Last night, Hazel and I went to dinner. Antarr followed us, Mo. All night.”
She gasped. “What? Why?!”
“I don’t know. Hazel said he’s been doing that since he moved here. Following her around. Frightening her. I went to confront him—”
“Michael!”
“I know, I know,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “Not a good idea to confront a deranged killer, but it didn’t matter because someone got there first.”
Michael filled her in on Mrs. Engelbert jumping Antarr, and then Samira and Spencer being called to the scene.
Monica hissed. “You mean Samira caught you on a date with another woman?”
“That’s what you’ve taken away from the story? I’ve just told you our client broke our main suspect’s nose and that said main suspect is stalking his children for who knows what reason. Maybe to finish what he started twenty years ago.”
She rolled her eyes. “All that concerns me, Michael. You know it does, but if you and Mira are on the outs, that’s important to me too. Did she seem okay?”
He shrugged his shoulders agitatedly. “I don’t know,” he snapped.
She lowered her head, peering at him. “Yes, you do. You’re Michael Grimm, no one is better at reading people than you. Was Mira upset?”
He turned his head, mumbling under his breath, but eventually, he said clearly, “Yes. She was upset.”
Monica nodded with a sigh. “I’ll call her then. Tell her we’re going to see Antarr and make sure she is okay.”
Michael studied his sister. “What about you? Why are you okay with this? You’ve wanted me and Mira to get back together for the last eight years.”
“Obviously, I want you both back together. You’re perfect for each other, and as I’ve mentioned, you’d both give me adorable nieces and nephews. But you’re still a grown man and until you come to your senses, you’re free to date whoever you want, whether I approve or not.” She lowered her voice. “Just like I can date whoever I want.”
His eyes narrowed. “Like who?”
“No one,” she said a little too fast.
His eyes were slits now. “Is there something you need to tell me, Monica Caroline Grimm?”
“You know middle names are off-limits, and no.” She picked up her phone, fingers a blur as she dialed Samira.
Michael took in her shifty eyes and tense shoulders. Like Monica said, no one was better at reading people than him.
“You are hiding something,” he cried, leveling a finger at her. “Or should I say someone? What happened to ‘we have to tell each other everything.’ And ‘partners don’t keep secrets.’ And—”
“Mira!” Monica said loudly, practically shouting into the phone. “So glad I reached you. How is...”
Michael shook his head, shutting their conversation out as he turned back to his work. Mo would tell him when she was ready. Until then he had bigger things to worry about.
He was about to face the most dangerous man in Castle Rock.
MONICA’S GRIP GOT TIGHTER and tighter on the wheel. Michael placed his hand over hers.
“You alright, Mo? I can practically hear your fingers crying for lack of circulation.”
She shook herself as she flexed her hands. “I’m fine. I just have Samira’s warnings ringing in my ears.”
“What did she say?”
“What do you think she said? She said we shouldn’t go anywhere near him. It’s even worse that I agree with her.”<
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“We have to solve this case, Mo.”
She nodded. “I know.” She turned her head to glance at him. “You going to be okay? Samira said his house is right on the edge of the woods. It’s basically his backyard.”
He stiffened. “I’ll be fine. We’re not actually going in.”
Michael told her, and himself that, but deep down there was a knot forming in his stomach with every mile the GPS told them to drive.
“She also said they brought him down to the station last night and got nothing out of him,” Monica added. “He didn’t say a word. Here’s hoping we have more luck.”
Soon, they found themselves turning on to a dirt road.
“That’s it right there.”
Michael didn’t need to ask why she was whispering. He knew.
Monica stopped the car along the road and they stepped out.
A ramshackle one-story wooden cabin looked back at them. The roof appeared caved in on one side with shingles removed and scattered on the lawn. The front windows that were busted and the circular holes told of thrown rocks. There were some rather graphic messages spray-painted on the walls but no effort was made to clean it up. In truth, the entire place looked a hearty sneeze away from being blown down.
“No money to fix the place, I’m guessing,” Monica said as they approached the front door. “Antarr doesn’t have a job that Ella could find.”
“Do you know anyone who would hire him?” he mumbled.
They stepped cautiously onto the porch. He winced when it groaned loud enough to wake the dead.
“Is it even safe to be on this thing?” she hissed.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Michael reached out and knocked. Once. Twice. Then a third time.
They waited.
One minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
Three—
“Michael, he’s not home or he’s not answering.”
“Hold on.”
Michael stepped over to the broken window, carefully peering inside.
Wicker chairs, wood-paneled walls, an overturned dining chair with a busted leg, and all over a thick layer of dust... but no Liam Antarr.
He pulled his head back and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go around back.”
They climbed off the creaky porch and went around to the back of the house. As they walked, Michael picked up on a faint buzzing sound that grew louder as they got closer.
In front of them, a second building loomed. This one was nothing like the first. The windows sat whole and shiny, and if there had been graffiti, it was covered by a thick coat of paint. They climbed the steps, taking in the intricate carvings in the wood of the rails.
“The article did say Antarr was a woodworker,” Monica said. “Had a workshop behind his home.”
Michael nodded as he looked around. Propped against the porch’s banister was an old sign.
“Woodworking by Antarr and Cordova,” he read.
The buzzing stopped the moment the last word left his lips.
He tensed. “Antarr is definitely here,” he said softly. “You stay behind me, Mo.”
“No.”
“I want you to get out of here if he tries something. Don’t worry about me.”
“No to that too,” she said stubbornly, albeit softly. “I’m the one with the Taser, pepper spray, and martial arts training. You know how to make hollandaise sauce. So, you stay behind me.”
With that, she sidestepped him and banged on the door, too fast for Michael to stop her.
“Liam Antarr,” she called. “We are detectives with Grimm Investigations, and we have some questions we need to ask you in—”
The door flew open, as if Antarr had been standing behind it, waiting for them to knock.
He stepped into the doorway. A thin layer of sawdust covered him, sprinkled all over his clothes and even in his scraggly gray beard. The swollen, blue and purple nose only added to his intimidating presence. He ripped the safety glasses off his face, and gave them the full force of his glower.
Monica inched back.
Michael couldn’t blame her. There was something unnerving about those menacing gray eyes. “Antarr,” Michael began, closing the distance. Over Liam’s shoulder, Michael could see a myriad of woodworker’s tools. Screwdrivers, saws, blades, sanders, and propped up against the back wall, a shotgun. He tore his eyes away. “Almost two weeks ago, on Thursday night, a woman named Harper Rowe was murdered in the woods. Where—”
Monica gripped his arm, pulling him back. “Antarr,” she said, taking over. “Did you hear about the death of Harper Rowe?”
Antarr took his eyes off Michael and focused on his sister.
He nodded. Once.
“She was a reporter,” she went on. “Rowe was doing a piece on your children. Did she ever approach you or contact you for an interview?”
Another movement. This time to shake his head.
“Did you know anything about this article? What the topic was?”
No movement. No nod. No headshake.
Monica still had a hand on his arm. She clamped down.
“We believe she was writing about you, Antarr. About what happened twenty years ago.”
His eyes narrowed as his lips pursed behind his beard.
“As such, we’d like to know where you were the night she was killed.”
He looked at her steadily. Michael hadn’t seen him blink once during the entire exchange.
“We can clear this all up right now,” Monica continued, “if you give us an alibi for the night of Harper’s death. So how about it? Where were you?”
Nothing.
Monica paused, letting the silence stretch, but Antarr made no effort to fill it.
“Okay,” Monica said after it grew unbearable. “Maybe you can tell us why you were following your daughter and my brother around? Any—”
This time he did make a move. Michael shoved Monica back the second he took a step, but all he did was lurch back into his shop, slamming the door in their faces.
“Let’s go,” Monica said. “For all we know, he’s running to get his shotgun.”
Monica tugged on his arm, pulling him off the porch and speed-walking back to their car.
“Welp,” she said after they climbed in. “We got nothing.” She turned the engine on and peeled off.
He blew out a breath. “The guy didn’t utter one word. He knows Harper died but claims not to know what she was writing about.”
“Did you pick up anything?” she asked desperately.
“Yeah. That he was pissed.”
“So now what?”
“We’re not going to get anything from him, Mo. We had to try, but from here on we’re better off working the case from Harper’s side. We need to find out what she knew.” He slammed his hand on the dash. “Antarr didn’t want us finding something on those computers. What was it?”
Monica turned off the dirt road and on to the street leading back to blessed civilization. “We didn’t know what she was working on when we spoke to him the first time, but now we do. Let’s speak to Kaiden Rowe again. Harper must have talked to him about Antarr. The Siren Woods Killer affected both their lives.”
Michael nodded, but his thoughts were still on Liam Antarr. The vision of haunting gray eyes burned in his brain.
ONCE MORE, THEY PARKED the car on the edge of the road and climbed out.
“No car.”
“It could be in the garage,” Michael replied, following her up the drive.
Michael went to ring the bell, but stopped when his sister nudged him.
“What’s wrong?”
She imperceptibly tilted her head to the left. “You clocking the old man on the porch? He seems mighty interested in us.”
Michael shifted his gaze. It was true. An elderly man, white hair peeking out of his hat, pretended not to be staring at them as he snapped at the same spot with his hedge clippers. His attempts at being covert j
ust made his snooping more obvious.
“He was watching the last time we came too,” Michael said. “Well, you are one for the direct approach. Let’s go find out why he’s so interested in us.”
They climbed off the porch and walked directly up to him.
“Hello.”
He squinted at them. “What’s that? What do you want?”
Up close, Michael could see his weathered face was a riot of wrinkles. Beady eyes peered at them over a bulbous red nose.
“We’re here to speak to Mr. Rowe,” Monica said. “Is he home?”
His eyes narrowed. “What business do you have with Rowe? I’m telling you. We don’t want any trouble here.”
“Oh?” Crossing her arms, Monica lifted a brow. “What would make you think we’re trouble?”
He scowled, but did not reply. Wise enough not to voice whatever brought on that assumption.
“We’re private detectives,” Michael said smoothly. “Hired by the family to investigate the death of Mr. Rowe’s wife.”
It was like he said the magic words. The man’s whole face changed. His scowl disappeared to be replaced with a smile.
“Private detectives? Really?” He beamed at them, thrusting out a gloved hand. “Honored to meet a fellow flatfoot. I’m Finley. Nelson Finley.”
Keeping the surprise off his face, Michael shook his hand. “Fellow flatfoot? You’re a private detective too?”
He shook Monica’s hand before tapping his nose. “I was, back in my younger days,” he replied. “Noble profession. Noble profession.”
“Well, you never really stop being a detective,” Monica said, granting him a smile. “That keen eye, mind for details, willingness to right wrongs. That never goes away, and I’m sure you still have that in spades, Mr. Nelson.”
He pinked, smile growing wider. “Aw shucks, ma’am. I’m just an old man now, but”—he stood a little straighter—“I guess you’re right.”
“So how about it?” Monica said. “Flatfoot to flatfoot. Is Mr. Rowe home?”
He shook his head, leaning in. “No, not yet. Tuesday mornings he goes grocery shopping. He left an hour ago, so he should be back soon.”