by Lynn Moon
“Let’s think about this,” I said, staring into the trees. “If you wanted to hide somebody, but you also wanted them around, how far away would you put them?”
“And if you wanted to have tunnels, you’d have to stay on your property,” Quinton added. “Right?”
“Unless you owned more property that people didn’t know about,” Hunter replied, with a very odd grin. “Or . . . if the tunnels were already here.”
We all darted for my computer at the same time. Hunter’s long legs gave him an advantage. From over his shoulder, we watched as Hunter typed tunnels in Utah. Only the state tunnels for traffic appeared. Then he typed hidden tunnels in Utah. Scrolling through the options, one caught our eyes. As the page opened, we gasped.
“Check this out!” Hunter said.
“Wow,” Quinton said. “I can’t believe it.”
“During World War II, escape tunnels carved into the local mountains allowed the citizens to relax,” Hunter read from off the screen. “This is too weird.”
“I guess people were so afraid of being bombed and all that they wanted a way to protect themselves,” I said.
“I remember my granddad talking about escape tunnels once,” Quinton said. “Wasn’t sure what he was talking about. So I just ignored him. Figured he was getting old and losing his marbles or something.”
“My uncle could be using those old tunnels.”
“Actually, one of those tunnels goes directly under this property,” Hunter said, pointing to an old map on the screen. “This house. That could be where you father got the idea of building one to your grandparents’ house. He just didn’t make it as deep.”
“We’ve got to get back down to that older tunnel,” I said.
“If your uncle took Charlie, how far would he go?” Hunter asked. “Let me check something.”
Hunter pulled up Google Maps. As he zoomed in on my house, my interest perked. What is he looking for?
“Okay. Here’s your house, Musetta. And that one is Quinton’s,” Hunter said. “There’s the road that goes around to your grandparents. I’m surprised your father never built a road between the two houses. That’s some trek getting to your grandparents using the county street. What is it, a couple of miles?”
“It’s not short,” I replied. “That’s why I walk through the field. See?” I pointed to another house that was around the bend. “The street goes all the way around here and then goes up to the front of my grandparents’ house. If I take the field, it’s not far at all. I guess my dad figured, since he built a tunnel, why worry about a road?”
“Do you know how much property your grandparents own?” Hunter asked.
“No, not really.”
“Okay, we know they own all of this. But how far back does their property go?” Hunter whispered.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Why?”
“Behind their farmhouse are the foothills,” Quinton replied. “I doubt if they bought the whole mountain.”
“What is that?” Hunter asked, zooming in to examine something.
“It looks like a shed or a small building of some type,” I replied.
“It’s too large to be shed,” Hunter said.
“Why don’t we find out?” Quinton asked.
“Why?” I asked. “We need to find Charlie.”
“Because he had to take her somewhere close,” Hunter explained. “And not to your grandparents’ house. I believe she’s still on their property somewhere. See, there’s an old fence that goes around most of their land.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost three,” Hunter replied.
“That gives us about four hours of daylight,” I said. “We’d better hurry.”
***
Darting into the kitchen, I grabbed my book bag. Hunter pulled several bottles of water from the fridge. Katrina had made sandwiches and left them on the kitchen table for anyone hungry. Quinton bagged several, along with chips. Not wanting to answer questions, we snuck out through my mom’s bedroom. With everyone busy searching the house for Charlie, the yard was mostly clear.
“This way,” I said, aiming for the field.
“This looks out of place,” Hunter said as we stepped over the dirt and rocks.
“This was a farm once,” I replied. “Some trees grew back. Everywhere but in this field. Don’t know why. It’s always been just an empty field.”
“Having a farm on a hill doesn’t make much sense. Not a lot of room for the crops,” Hunter said.
“I’m not sure what kind of a farm this used to be,” I answered. “Could have been cattle for all I know.”
To avoid my grandparents, we veered toward the hillside. With the trees and thick brush in our way, our pace slowed. Soon, it felt more like a hike.
“May I see that printout again?”
Hunter handed me the map. I could see my house and my grandparents’ house. “There’s a pathway over here. And that building is way over there. We’re nowhere close.”
“We’ll just have to walk through the trees,” Hunter said, peering over my shoulder.
“I’m sure my grandparents do not come out here much,” I said.
Without a compass, we had to guess which way to go. The farther we hiked, the thicker the trees grew.
“Hey, there’s a stream over here.” I knelt down, allowing the water to run through my fingers. “Never knew it was here.”
“Ow,” Quinton cried. Swatting at flies, he yelped each time a branch smacked him in the face.
“We’re making too much noise,” Hunter said a little later on, after I screamed when my foot got tangled in some tree roots.
“Sorry,” I replied, tripping over another fallen tree.
“Are we getting close?” Quinton asked.
“How should I know?” I said.
We continued to trip and hike until we ran into a solid line of heavy brush.
“Thorns,” I said, touching one. “We can’t walk through it.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” Quinton added.
“Let’s sit and eat,” Hunter suggested. “We’ve been out here for about an hour. I’ll look at the printout again.”
Taking a break was a good idea. But there weren’t any good places to sit. Walking along the bushes, we munched on our sandwiches.
“At least there’s not as many trees here,” I said. “See anything, Hunter?”
“I think we’re off track,” he replied.
“How can we be off track?” Quinton asked.
“I think we’re over here by this old dirt road,” Hunter explained. “It leads up to some cell towers. If we are, then we’ll see it soon.”
After a few more minutes, I sighed. “Ah man. There’s the dirt road. We’re nowhere near where we want to be.” We stared at the dirt road as if it were an impassible river. For the last hour, we’d somehow managed to head east instead of southwest.
“What a waste of time.” Tapping the dirt a few times with his foot, Quinton sighed.
“Let’s head back to my house,” I said, pulling out a water. “Here, have one.”
“Thanks,” Hunter replied. “Who lives down that way?”
“Don’t know,” I answered, heading in the opposite direction. “There a big house at the end of this road. But I never met the people who live there.”
“I have,” Quinton said. “Can’t remember their names.”
“Come on,” I yelled out. “We have a pretty big hike ahead of us.”
We trudged silently along the old dirt road. For some reason, the trees and brush had taken us completely off course. I was pretty sure we were all thinking the same thing: What happened to Charlie?
“I’m not used to dirt roads,” Hunter said after a while. “It seems to be getting cold out here.”
“Not all the roads around here are paved,” I said. “Just the main ones. And heat doesn’t stick around once the sun goes down.”
“Hey, man, this is the country, remember?” Quinton asked
.
“Did you hear that?” Hunter halted and glanced around.
“Hear what?” Quinton asked.
“Listen.” Hunter walked to the edge of the dirt road. “There it is again. Almost sounded like a girl’s scream.”
“I don’t hear anything.” Straining, I tried to listen for something—anything. All was quiet.
As birds chirped, only a slight breeze whistled through the leaves.
“Sounds like a person stepping on a stick,” Hunter said. “Hear it breaking?”
We froze in place as a flock of birds darted from the trees.
“What just spooked them?” Hunter asked.
“Good question,” Quinton replied.
Turning around, I strained to see into the bushes. “Over there. Something red, like a shirt, stuck on that branch.”
Quinton ran into the trees and disappeared between the heavy brush. Hunter and I tried to follow, but the thorns pushed us back.
We listened as Quinton trampled and crushed sticks and dead tree limbs.
“I found this,” he yelled as he stumbled onto the dirt road. “And there’s an old truck parked back there. But it’s empty.”
Running up to him, I almost fell over. Dangling from Quinton’s tight grip was Charlie’s dirty, torn shirt. In his other hand was her broken flashlight.
Reaching out to touch all we had found of my best friend, fear ricocheted through my soul. “Is that blood?”
CHAPTER 17
AS THE SUN SET BEHIND my grandparents’ house, the evening shadows darkened. My heart pounded each time I glanced at Charlie’s bloody shirt, now sitting on our kitchen table. To help with the search, Sheriff Jim called in several K-9 units from neighboring towns. Sheriff Jim asked several times if we were sure that the shirt was really Charlie’s. For some reason, no one could remember what she was wearing that morning except for us. It made me angry that no one believed what we were saying. Being only twelve really sucked sometimes. Instead of deathly silence, our foothills now resonated with barking dogs and irritated voices.
“She’ll be found.” Auntie Roe clasped my hands together before reaching down and kissing them. “I promise.” She was trying to give me hope. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t hold onto much optimism.
Deep inside, I knew I had angered my uncle by blocking his access to me. Then, when we searched the hidden tunnels, we violated his private territory. Or what he believed was his.
My anger spurred me on. Just sitting here and waiting was not an option. I knew what I had to do.
“Thanks, Auntie Roe.” I hugged her. “I’m sure they will.”
Nodding at my friends, I walked outside. The boys followed me.
“I can tell you’re planning something.” Hunter glanced over at a deputy, who was talking on a cell phone.
“We have to visit my grandparents. They know something.” I stared at Hunter.
“I agree,” Hunter replied. “There’s just no way they could not know about your uncle. People don’t bury a child who isn’t dead. And we’ve never found a death certificate for him. My mom searched the records.”
Quinton tapped his foot. “Your grandparents won’t be happy with our questions. But I don’t see where we have another choice.”
Without the sun lighting our path, walking through the back field wasn’t easy. Dirt clods and rabbit holes created hidden traps that could easily twist an ankle. But I didn’t have the time to walk the winding road. Barks from the sheriff’s dogs hounded me, making me think about Charlie. I wanted to scream. How could this happen to her? How could she simply disappear?
We paused at the burnt shed and stared up at the old farmhouse. All remained dark, except for the kitchen light. My grandmother was probably cooking dinner about now. Not bothering to knock, I opened the backdoor and walked inside. Her face lit up as soon as she saw me.
“Hi, sweetheart. What brings you out so late?”
Grandmother was setting the table for their dessert—a pie. But instead of two plates, there were three.
“Expecting company?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Three plates.” I picked up the extra one and waved it in the air.
“Oh, silly me.” She laughed. “I guess I can’t count anymore.”
“I believe you can count just fine, Grandmother. There’s a plate for you, a plate for grandfather, and a plate for Uncle Berty. Why don’t you have a plate for Charlie, since she’s with him?”
“What are you talking about? Berty died years ago.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know about Charlie being missing. All the noise outside and all the excitement. I know the sheriff was here earlier and searched the house.”
Grandmother looked away.
“Grandmother.” I raised my voice a little. “Don’t ignore me. Where’s Berty? Have you been hiding him?” With her back to me and her shoulders moving, I could tell she was crying. “You have to talk to me.”
“We know Berty is still alive,” Hunter said from the back door. The boys had not yet entered the kitchen. “No death certificate was ever issued. Why are you hiding him? Are you afraid of the police?”
“He said he never hurt that little girl,” she said between sobs. “And we believed him. The police would lock him up. Take him away from us. He was just a little baby.”
“We couldn’t let that happen,” my grandfather said from the hallway. Slowly, he made his way over to my grandmother. The whole time, he kept his eyes on me. “Our boy was only six years old. Just a child. How could a little boy kill another child?”
“Tell me about the tunnels,” I said, replacing the extra plate on the table.
“Your father had it built. He was afraid that if he visited too much, it would bring attention to Berty. The other one was here when we bought this farm. These mountains are filled with tunnels. All built during the war.”
“Why would my dad visiting his parents draw attention?” I asked.
Grandfather helped my grandmother sit down. Hunter assisted my grandfather. Sitting at the table, I couldn’t stop staring at her. She looked so frail and afraid.
“Your father and I had a fight,” Grandfather finally said. “It was a long time ago.”
“A fight? What about?” I asked.
“Berty,” Grandmother replied. “Among other things.”
“You have to tell me everything. I have to know.”
My grandparents stared at each other. When Grandfather nodded, my grandmother looked away. I cried inside for her as her tears fell.
“There were complications during their birth,” Grandfather explained. “Nicky came out fine. Berty, however, had problems. His birth was hard, over two hours. He was always a little slower than Nicky.”
“Slower?” Quinton asked. “How?”
“We started noticing differences when they were about a year old. Nicky walked, Berty didn’t. Nicky talked at two. Berty didn’t say his first word until he was almost four.”
Grandmother cried harder into her hands. I could tell she didn’t want to hear any of this.
“It was when the boys started school that the real trouble started,” Grandfather said. “Fights happened almost every day. Nicky stood up for his brother, but that only caused more problems.”
“What kinds of fights?” I asked.
“Kids picked on Berty. They were always coming home with bruises or torn clothing,” Grandfather replied.
“We saw the old newspaper articles,” I said. “But they didn’t tell us much.”
“Precious little Lavender,” my grandmother said, wiping her eyes. “Such a pretty little girl. Her parents lived only a few houses away. Nicky was so very fond of her.”
“We believe Berty was jealous of Nicky,” Grandfather added.
“According to the police reports, it was determined that Lavender was raped,” Hunter said. “How old were the boys when it happened?”
“Six,” Grandmother replied. “A six-year-old
child cannot rape a little girl!”
“There’re some issues with the case my wife does not know about.” Grandfather’s eyes darted between Hunter and my grandmother.
“Such as?” she asked. The sternness in her face almost frightened me.
“The girl was violated,” he replied. “But with an object.”
“What object?” Grandmother asked.
“Something that belonged to me.” Grandfather’s eyes teared. As he glanced toward the sink, I could sense his pain. So much guilt and agony.
“What thing?” The sound coming from my grandmother sent chills down my back. “You never told me this!”
“Tatiana. You didn’t need to know.” It sounded as if he was pleading with her.
“Yes, I did!” she yelled. “Did my boy kill that little girl?”
Grandfather sobbed into his hands.
“Oh, my God,” Grandmother whispered.
“You hid him from the police?” I asked.
Grandmother nodded again.
“How?”
“We called the boys by the same name,” Grandmother said, standing up. She moved over to the sink and leaned over as if she were about to be sick. “If Berty was guilty, we would keep him away from everyone. Berty was our problem.”
“Your problem?” I repeated.
Grandfather stepped in front of my grandmother. “We made Berty disappear.”
“Disappear?” My head whirled. “You can’t make a child disappear!”
“When Berty was ill, we told the doctor his name was Nicky. The boys looked so much alike that our plan work much easier than we thought it would.”
“Plan?” I asked.
“We never used the name Berty again,” my Grandfather said. “Not even when we were alone.”
“You did what?” I screamed. “How could you do such a thing? No wonder he’s so messed up!”
“Mrs. Weavers, do you know why Musetta hit her father in the casket?” Hunter asked, now standing next to my grandmother. Grandmother shook her head. “Because she believed that for the last two years he was raping her.”
Grandmother turned around so fast that it startled me. “What? Nicky abuse you? No, never!”
“After his death, however, the rapes continued,” Quinton added, taking several steps toward the kitchen table. “Which meant that it wasn’t her father after all, but her uncle.”