Eye for an Eye (An Owen Day Thriller)

by Rachel Ford

We passed the Tesch site. It was clear now, with no trace of the family. We reached our site. It looked exactly like we’d left it.

  I made sure of that before I let either of them enter. I checked the perimeter, and then the SUV. I wasn’t paranoid, but I wasn’t stupid, either. A guy like Tesch was a loose cannon.

  The exercise apparently proved the last straw for Daniel, though. He declared that he might as well have stayed home. “At least then I wouldn’t have to put up with all this bullshit.”

  Which, of course, was a whole different problem. He was nine years old. He had no business using language like that.

  He laughed when I told him so. “What are you going to do? Ground me? Go ahead. At least then I won’t have to go on any more of these stupid bike rides.”

  “I’m going to tell your mother is what I’m going to do.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Okay. You can either apologize for your language, or you can skip ice cream when we go out tonight.”

  This presented him with a real dilemma, one he chewed on in silence for a minute.

  “I’m going to make lunch,” I told him. “If you haven’t figured it out by time food’s ready, no ice cream.”

  He scowled and shot me the evil eye. But he didn’t apologize. Maisie’s forehead furrowed, like the conflict bothered her even though it had nothing to do with her.

  “Just apologize, Dan,” she whispered.

  He said nothing, but he divided his furious looks between the pair of us, as if he considered his sister some kind of traitor. As if she was supposed to take his side as a matter of course, and she’d failed to do so.

  I rifled through the cooler and pulled out a pack of hotdogs – another of my signature meals. I moved to the camp grill instead of the stove this time. It was about the same size: just a little box with a grate inside, and a hookup for a two-pound propane cannister outside.

  I got the hotdogs cooking and found a bag of chips. Then, I pulled icy cold cans of pop out of the cooler. “Time’s almost up,” I warned Daniel.

  He said nothing.

  Maisie said, “I have to pee.”

  I glanced down the road, toward the bathrooms. They were a short hike away, past a few bends in the road. Maybe a quarter of a mile as the crow flies, and twice as much on the road. The hotdogs would probably be burned by time we got back.

  “Okay,” I said. “Daniel, you go with your sister.”

  He scowled at me. “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  He got out of his seat with a huff and stomped toward the end of the site.

  “Wash your hands. And come right back when you’re done,” I called after them.

  I rolled the hot dogs on the grill face, so that they browned evenly, and shut the lid. I laid a handful of chips on each plate, and spread the plates around the table. I distributed the pop by the plates.

  Food would put everyone in a better mood, I figured, myself included. On that presumption, I added extra chips. They couldn’t hurt.

  I checked the dogs. They were done, cooked to a nice brown color on all sides. I glanced down the road. No sign of the kids yet. So I kept the cover on to keep them hot and turned the burner off.

  Then I prepped the buns, and laid them out, two to a plate – ready and waiting, so there’d be no more delay than it took to choose a hotdog and plop it in the bun. I didn’t want to put up with hangriness anymore than I had to.

  I checked my watch, and then the road. No sign of the kids. They should have been back by now. Which meant only one thing: Maisie was trying to talk some sense into her brother.

  I scarfed down a few chips and eyed the grill. I could eat now, couldn’t I? I decided against it. It’d do us good to eat together.

  I sighed, and waited, checking my watch and the roadside with mounting impatience. I was about to grab my keys and head off in search of the pair of them when my phone rang.

  My first thought was Megan. But I’d been wrong so many times already on that score, that I figured it would actually be someone from the sheriff’s department. Probably Wagner, if events so far had been any kind of indicator.

  I pulled the phone out of my pocket and frowned at the display: Unknown Caller. It went on ringing. I started to slip it back into my pocket. Then I thought, What if it was Megan, from a hotel room? Maybe the outbound line would employ some kind of mask, to hide the direct room numbers.

  I pulled it back out and accepted the call. “Hello?”

  “Hello?” a voice said. A man’s voice, gruff and hurried, with some kind of East Coast accent. “Owen Day?”

  “Who is this?”

  “The man who has your children.”

  Chapter Eight

  My heart seemed to stop in my chest.

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Day,” the voice went on. “I’m only going to say this once. If you want to see your children alive again, you will do exactly what I say.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “If you cooperate, you will see your children. If you don’t, they die. Do you understand?”

  “Who are you?” I demanded again.

  “Tell me you understand, Owen. Tell me, or I hang up the phone, and you never hear from them again.”

  I clamped down on the urge to argue, or threaten, or make demands. My mind was racing. The kids had been just down the road, well inside the park. That meant that whoever this was had been, and maybe still was, in the park. I needed more information. I needed him to keep on talking. “I understand,” I said.

  “Good job. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, first rule: no pigs. You so much as breathe a word about any of this to the pigs, we cut their pretty little throats. Okay?”

  I said nothing. Not because I wanted to antagonize this son of a bitch, but because I couldn’t find my voice. My brother had died the exact same way. It didn’t bear thinking about Maisie and Daniel meeting that same end.

  “Okay?” he said again.

  I forced out an, “Okay.”

  “Good. Rule number two: there’s a guy on the way to your site, right now. He’s gonna stop at the end of it. You’re going to get in the back of the car. No funny business, no trying to be a hero. You play ball, we take you to the kids.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Cooperation. That’s all. You been poking around, sticking that nose of yours where it doesn’t belong, you and them kids. We need you to sit tight for a few days. Tight and cozy. You do that, you all go home. No problems.”

  I heard tires on the roadway, winding through the wooded street.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re talking about. We haven’t been poking around in anything.”

  A red Subaru rounded the corner, slow and careful, like a conscientious driver taking his time in an area with kids all over the place.

  “When my guy gets there,” the voice in my ear said, “I need you to be on your best behavior, you understand?”

  The Subaru passed the site and turned out of sight around another bend.

  “You understand?” he asked again.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Good. And lest you get any funny ideas, he don’t know where the kids are. He’s waiting for me to tell him where to go. And you mess with him, our understanding is off. Understand?”

  “I understand,” I said again.

  “Good man. Rule number three: as soon as you’re in the car, you hand your phone over. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  I heard another vehicle, moving faster this time.

  “You’re making a mistake,” I said. “Whoever you are, we don’t know a thing. None of this is necessary. Just let the kids go. We’ll go home, today.”

  The voice laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  A big domestic SUV, silver and new, rounded the corner, and slowed to a halt at the end of my campsite. I couldn’t see much of the driver – just a bit of sandy brown h
air and light skin. He didn’t look my way. He just sat there, waiting.

  The voice on the phone said, “Remember what I said, Owen. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be a hero. Heroes get people killed.”

  I walked toward the vehicle. I heard the internal locks release. I opened the door.

  The guy in the front seat turned my way. He was a youngish guy, but not too young – approaching forty, but not there yet. He said, “Get in.”

  I got in.

  “Phone.”

  I handed the phone over.

  “Buckle up,” he said. “It’s the law.”

  There was a sneer in his voice. I ignored it and fastened the belt. He pulled back onto the road and started driving.

  “You’re making a mistake. We’re not whoever you think we are.”

  “You’re nobody,” he said. He had the same East Coast accent as his boss. “You’re a nobody, Mr. Day.”

  “Then let me go.”

  “And get those poor kids of yours killed?”

  I watched him in the mirror. He was smiling, like this was some kind of game. Like he was having fun.

  “Is this about Tesch?” I said. “Look, I can retract my statement. Say I got it wrong. It was just a misunderstanding. I’ll say I started it, if you want.”

  He frowned. “Tesch? The dumbass who beats his woman?”

  “That’s what this is about, right?”

  He laughed. “That’s right. It’s about the dumbass.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then tell me what you want me to do. You want me to call the cops, and tell them I got it wrong?”

  “You don’t worry about that. Joey’ll tell you what to do. In the meantime, you sit tight, and shut your piehole.”

  “Joey?” I asked. “The guy on the phone?”

  The driver said nothing.

  “He’s a friend of Tesch’s?”

  He shook his head. “Jesus. You are not a smart man, are you, Mr. Day?”

  He would say no more than that. He just drove out of the campgrounds, a little faster than he should have, but not fast enough to attract attention. Then he wound his way toward the park exit.

  I thought over my options. I figured I could unclip the belt and cross the distance between me and him without too much of a problem. Before he could draw a gun, certainly, and probably before he could drive us into a tree.

  And even if I couldn’t, at this speed, we’d be banged up and sore, but alive. And he was a big guy, but not too big. He had beefy forearms, and small, pudgy fingers. He’d been a tough guy twenty years ago. Now, he was no pushover, but he was on the decline.

  I could take him. I wasn’t worried about that.

  But that still left Joey. That still left the kids – somewhere. Out of sight. Out of reach.

  I stayed in my seat, buckled and quiet. I was making plans. Wherever this guy was taking me, it’d be wherever they had Maisie and Daniel.

  My first priority was making sure the kids were safe. Second priority? Keep them safe, by getting them the hell away from these guys, by any means necessary.

  I studied the guy’s neck as he drove. It was thick and fleshy. It wouldn’t snap like a twig, but with the right pressure, and the right speed, it’d break easily enough. Anyone’s would. We’re all made of the same flesh and bone, and with the right stimuli, it all rends and tears and breaks.

  All I needed was eyes on the kids, and a reasonable exit strategy.

  We rolled out of the park, and through country roads. We passed by a little town and disappeared into hill country again. Then we turned onto a road I’d never forget: Jay Road.

  I thought about the guy in the tarp, with a bullet hole through his forehead. I thought about Wagner, and the FBI’s missing person. I wondered if I was going to be the next body in the swamp. I couldn’t make myself think that maybe the kids already were.

  But the idea floated around in my thoughts anyway. What if they were already dead? I hadn’t heard them, had I? I didn’t get confirmation of life or safety.

  That had been a mistake. But too late to rectify it now. If he was driving me out here to kill me at the side of the road, well, I could take action then. I could take action the instant we started pulling over.

  On the other hand, if this guy really was taking me to the kids and I moved on him, I might endanger them. I might get them killed.

  So I bided my time.

  We passed the sludgy green waters. We drove under the long, dark canopy of trees. Then, the guy in the front seat put on a blinker. Like a conscientious driver, a good citizen who followed the rules of the road. Buckle up. Both hands on the wheel. Use your turn signals.

  There was a driveway ahead of us, leading to an old farm. There were fields on either side of the drive that looked to be a few years overgrown. Recently worked, in the scheme of things, but not too recently. Not within the last five years, certainly.

  Stray cornstalks shot up amid grass and weeds. A few pieces of old, rusted farm equipment lay scattered across the property: some kind of grain harvester by the side of the road, and tilling implements nearer the barn. There was a trailer with flat tires at the far end of a field.

  The barn looked in worse shape than the fields. It was one of those old, round-roof structures, designed to maximize loft space for hay storage. The more hay you could fit in the loft, the more cattle you could keep alive during the long, cold Wisconsin winter.

  Back in the day, this barn no doubt had stored a lot of hay, and seen a lot of cattle winter just fine. But not anymore. Now, the ends bowed outward, and the roof sagged inward.

  The old rafters were putting up a hell of a fight, that was for sure. They were clinging to life, trying to keep the structure together. But it had maybe one more season left. It might last all the way to winter, where the first wet snow would finish it off. Or it might fall to a windstorm before winter ever rolled around.

  The house looked like it was in better repair. Its hipped roof needed a little work. There were missing shingles in places, and the ones that remained looked deeply weathered and well worn. But the walls were straight, and the angles precise.

  It was an American Foursquare, with a porch on the front and a big center dormer with a window frame in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. Then again, most of the woodwork looked like it needed a fresh coat of paint – everything from the windowsills to the porch.

  There was another big SUV in the front, this one dark blue and just as new: a year old, maybe two. Beside it was a crusty old pickup truck, thirty-five years old if it was a day. It looked to be made of more rust than anything else, and the frame had been badly bent at some point. It dipped in the middle, and the rear didn’t quite align with the front. An old farm truck that had seen better days. Better decades.

  “Are the kids here?” I asked. “Are they okay?”

  “We’re almost there,” the driver said.

  Which meant I’d been stupid twice in a row. This guy had known where we were going – he’d known all along. Joey had lied to me.

  We drove around to the side of the house, back by a two-stall garage. It looked newer than most of the other buildings, and consequently was in the best shape.

  There was yet another vehicle here, a moderately new domestic pickup with a tow behind camper and Indiana plates. Two guys were waiting by it: One of medium height, with dark hair and light skin; thin hair and a receding hairline, and oily skin. And a tall guy with medium-short curly hair, and dark skin; a full head of nice hair, and good, clear skin too.

  The white guy looked like he might be Italian or Greek, and not the tall, dark and handsome kind, either. He was a few years and twenty pounds away from Danny Devito’s character in Twins. His buddy was African American; he was tall, with picture perfect chiseled features. He looked like he could have been a whole different kind of movie star. If he wasn’t kidnapping people at gunpoint, anyway.

  I stared at the white guy. I knew him. I’d seen him, recently. I’d seen him that very morning, at the showers. J
ust a bit of a profile: a blunt nose and pale skin, with dark, thinning hair on top.

  I’d seen him the night before, too. One of dozens of faces that showed up at the Tesch site, and then vanished when the flashing lights appeared.

  The guy the kids called a killer. The guy the kids said the FBI was looking for.

  “Joey,” I said.

  “Now, I thought you said you didn’t know anything?” the guy in the front said. There was amusement in his tone again, like he’d caught me in some kind of lie.

  “I don’t,” I said. “You’re the one who told me his name.”

  He said nothing else. He put the SUV in park and turned the engine off. Joey raised a remote, or maybe a second key. The doors unlocked.

  The third guy, the good-looking guy with the curly hair, opened the door. Not the boss, then. That meant either Joey, or someone in the house, called the shots.

  “Come on,” the guy with the hair said. “Out.” He had a suppressed Glock in his left hand, but it was superfluous at this point. I still hadn’t seen the kids. I didn’t know if they were here or somewhere else. I wasn’t going to do anything yet.

  I got out and glanced around. The weeds were tall in this part of the yard. Not that they’d been short in the front, but they were worse here. Maybe the front had been mowed once or twice so far, but the back not at all.

  “Where are the kids, Joey?” I asked.

  Joey was shorter than me by about half a foot, but he kept enough distance between us that he didn’t have to angle his head much to meet my gaze. He met it and smiled. “They’re here.”

  “Where?”

  “Inside.”

  “Show me.”

  “We’re going to. But first, we need to search you. Make sure you’re not carrying any kind of weapons or recording devices. Or trackers.”

  I stared at him. “Why the hell would I be armed? Or wearing a tracker?”

  Joey shrugged. “If you’re not, you got nothing to be worried about, do you? Now, turn around. Hands against the door.”

  The driver stayed in the vehicle, which made me think they didn’t mean to shoot me. Not yet, anyway. They wouldn’t have shot at the vehicle, not with one of their own guys in it. So I turned and the guy with the hair patted me down.