A Child Is Missing (30 page)

“And what did you hear?”

“Heard the engine revving, heard the tires squeal. Like he was having a hard time holding the road. Heard the engine going like a son of a bitch. Thought it was teenagers.”

“And then?” Will was shivering on the porch.

“Went by like a son of a bitch. Up that way.” She pointed toward the expressway. “Then all the screech and gravel sounds when he turned around. Zoom, back this way. Then a crash down the hill.”

“I see. Is there anything else? Could there have been two cars?”

The woman shrugged. “What do you care about all this? He was a friend of yours, you say?”

“Yes. Actually, he … Never mind.”

“Probably drunk, he was.”

“Thank you for your trouble.” But Will's thanks were to a closed door.

Why were you going so fast, Frannie? You weren't that drunk, were you? No, you weren't. Not if you were at the liquor store at seven and in a wreck at seven-thirty. So what happened, Frannie?

Will drove slowly, back toward Long Creek, the way Fran Spicer had driven to his death. He was looking for—what? He had no idea what or, for that matter, why. But there was something; there had to be. Fran stops to buy schnapps and beer, his favorite poison, at seven. A half-hour later, he cracks his car up, but he's only come a short way. And how drunk was he?

Just past the crest of the hill, Will saw the abandoned box-shaped concrete building he'd seen earlier. Looks like a little machine shop or something, Will thought. As he drove past, he saw the faded sign over the big metal door—
BODY SHOP
—and, in his rearview mirror, a driveway along the side leading to the back. From the boards on the windows, he figured the building had been idle awhile.

Will had passed the liquor store again, and something clicked in his mind. Will thought hard. I'm Fran Spicer. I've just driven from Bessemer. I'm stressed out because in my heart I wonder if I can handle this kidnapping story. It's dark out, and I see the liquor store there. Ah, me. I buy schnapps and beer, figuring it'll help me relax once I get where I'm going. But I'm an alcoholic. I want—

No, Will thought. If I'm an alcoholic, I don't want a drink, I
need
one. I can't wait. And I'm driving along just after leaving the liquor store, and I see that abandoned body shop right there, and my headlights catch the driveway along the side of the building.

And I'm slowing down, going to turn left into the driveway. And I'm going to drive around the back of this building. And here I am, and I'm shaking and anxious and struggling with myself, wanting to drink so bad, so bad, and yet not wanting to.

Did you park right here, Frannie? Seems like you might have. It was dark, and you were alone with your demons. You figure what safer place than a boarded-up garage—

Finally, it registered: the soot around the plywood in the window holes and where a rear door had been. This was no long-abandoned garage; there had been a fire here, and not that long ago. God Almighty. Now Will remembered the item in the Long Creek paper two men killed in a garage fire.

Will got out, shivered from excitement as well as from cold. He walked toward the rear door, which was above a low set of cement steps. Now he saw: the stray scraps of metal and charred wood, junk strewn around the building's perimeter, the half-burned tires lying in the weeds—all leftovers from the blaze.

“And the fire hadn't yet happened when you came this way, Fran. This was still a working garage. Now isn't that a coincidence.”

No, not a coincidence. In the corner formed by the low stone steps and the rear wall of the building, Will saw the bits of bottle glass where the fire hoses had driven them. He even recognized the red, white, and blue label of Fran's brand of schnapps.

Will knelt by the steps, looked at the glass. With sad satisfaction, he saw that the cap was still on over the broken neck. “So did you win the most important battle, after all, Fran?”

Will stood up, tried to give himself up to his intuition. You were here, Fran, and then you left in a big hurry. Didn't even buckle your seat belt. You were afraid, terribly afraid.

Without knowing what he was looking for, Will walked slowly up the driveway toward the road. He scanned the side of the burned-out building. The corners were still intact, and there were no spotlights where one might have expected them to be. So it would have been pitch-dark that night.

Will was at the edge of the road now. The cold seemed to clear his mind. Okay: What happened next is easy. Fran turned to the right, then headed up that way, back toward the expressway. No doubt about that; the old woman had heard him. Why right? Because a right turn is almost always easier, it would have been easier here because the driveway is banked a little for a right turn. And if Fran had the choice, for sure he'd head back toward the expressway, back where he'd come from rather than deeper into strange territory.

You were afraid, Fran. Driving like a bat out of hell. Or trying to; that clunker of yours didn't always accelerate that great, did it? Any good car, any car with pickup, could have overtaken you in the short haul.

Will drove to the nearest phone booth, the one in front of the liquor store. Using his credit card, he reached the FBI in Pittsburgh. Jerry Graham was not in. Would Will like to leave a message?

“Tell him I think he should get back to Long Creek as fast as he can,” Will said. “I think I've got something. I'll be in touch later.”

He dialed the Long Creek police, tried to disguise his voice as he asked for Raines. Raines was out on patrol, and Will could leave a message.

“No thanks,” Will said.

He dialed the
Long Creek Eagle,
asked for the clipping morgue. Then he was told that the paper didn't do research for outsiders. He got his call switched to the city desk, told an editor who he was, got switched back to the clipping morgue, and finally got cooperation.

“Your paper had a story on a fire recently on the road up to the expressway,” Will said. “Couple guys got burned up. I'd appreciate anything you can tell me.”

“Sure, I knew those guys. Not the first story-we had on them.”

“No?”

“This ain't that big a town. Few years ago, they got probation for breaking and entering. Before that, they were regulars in juvie court. That wasn't written up, but everyone around here knew. Just like they knew they dealt in stolen auto parts.”

“Tell me more.”

Chuckle. “What's to tell? Every town has a couple of eight balls like the Santos brothers. Bill and Ron, about a year or so apart. Mid, late twenties. Screwups from grade school on. Always wanting to get rich quick, and never mind how.”

“Eight balls who grew up to be crooks, probably.”

“Nothing you could print, but sure. Cops used to roust them once in a while, but there was never anything they could prove. Terrible thing, though, getting burned up like that. Should have known better than to try to clean up with gasoline. Them being mechanics and all.”

In for a dime, in for a dollar. Will drove back to the garage and parked in the same spot. He tried to remember the technical definition for trespassing. Well, he wasn't on private property with the intention of committing a crime (exactly), so that should count for something.

It was snowing lightly. His car tires left faint tracks on the driveway. He was wearing a good windbreaker and hoped it wouldn't get dirty.

The door was solid plywood—no way to knock it in with his shoulder. Aware that he was taking a perilous extra step, he opened his trunk and fished out the jack handle. He found enough space to cram the end of the handle between plywood and door frame and pushed hard. He heard a shriek of splintering wood, and some soot fell onto his jacket sleeves.

The plywood swung in, and a blast of foul air assaulted his nostrils. Smells of burned grease and rubber and (only his imagination?) flesh.

Will stepped into the darkness, felt the jack handle bump against something. Another step, and his feet almost went out from under him. “Jesus…”

Ice, all over the floor. He could see the interior now, from the light coming through the burned-out roof. Snowflakes fell gently through the hole above, as though into an old cathedral, coating the grease and grime and God only knew what.

He paused to collect himself. He was still near enough to the door to see his car, and now he could see the area just inside the garage well enough to make out ruined welding masks and a blackened tangle of hoses and cutting torches in a corner.

Something else: lying on the floor, a piece of sheet metal, about the size of a dinner tray and curved. Will drew the rest of the curve in his imagination, and for an instant his mind's eye saw the hot-water tank where Jamie Brokaw had lain.

“My God Almighty.” His whisper was swallowed by the silence.

Stepping cautiously (he felt grit in the ice now; the footing was better), he moved into the interior. It would all make sense, wouldn't it? The fire was before Jamie Brokaw was found, so no one connected the metal here with the hot-water tank. Hell, why would they?

“But you saw, Fran. We'll never know just how or what, but you saw.”

Off to one side, he saw a long, narrow room, spotted the blackened commode buried under ashes and ice. Something drew him to the door—intuition, instinct. Providence. He saw something frozen in the ice on the bathroom floor. At first glance, it looked like part of a brush, or a mechanic's rag. Then Will saw the little tail.

A child's toy bear.

Will nudged it with the jack handle. You were here, Fran; you were here. And Will remembered what Fran Spicer had said on his deathbed: “The story of my life.” Ah, Fran. I thought you were feeling sorry for yourself, getting ready to die, and here you were trying to tell me something.

“It was the last, best story of your life, Fran. The last, best story, and you never got to write it. Son of a bitch!”

Furious, Will jammed the jack handle into the ice surrounding the bear. Again and again, he poked it, feeling the ice chips fly into his face, but the bear would not come loose.

Will let his shoulders slump, rested one arm on the jack handle. He had to reach Jerry Graham, had to make him get his ass back to Long Creek. The garage had to be turned inside out. The money might be here.

The hermit in the woods—God Almighty, he had saved the boy! He wasn't a kidnapper, for Christ's sake!

But it still didn't add up, Will thought as he stood under the hole again, feeling snowflakes settle onto his ears. What didn't add up? The Santos brothers didn't. It sounds like those two didn't have a full deck between them. Just a couple of nickle-and-dime crooks, trying to make some big money in a stupid, amateurish—

All kidnappers were amateurs. Hadn't Jerry Graham said that? Both the Santos brothers had been stupid: Wasn't that what the guy from the
Long Creek Eagle
had said? Then where had the brains come from, the brains to raise the ransom demand? The cleverness to mail the ransom notes from scattered post offices?

An outsider, a smart outsider, had taken over the whole thing.

“You guys were in over your heads, weren't you?” Will said. “You should have stuck to what you knew best, nickle-and-dime shit. Well, you paid for what you did. This fire was no accident, was it?”

Wind swirled over the hole in the roof, and more snow and soot fell. Then Will realized that the gust was part of another sound. The sound of a car pulling around to the back of the garage.

He tiptoed toward the rear door, saw his own car through the crack, glimpsed the second set of tire tracks. He couldn't see the other car, but he heard the door slam.

Will slipped into the darkness behind the door, wondered at once whether it was the right place to be, knew it was too late to change his mind. He gripped the jack handle tightly, swallowed hard, and tried to breathe evenly.

Will heard the soft scuffing on the steps outside, then nothing. Whoever it was was standing right outside. A long, long silence followed. Will breathed slowly, ready to use all his animal strength to smash the first hand or head that came through the door. If he could strike first, he could get out. Never mind his car; he would run, run, run.…

Will saw the flashlight beam, saw the wafer of light playing in the shadows along the floor. The light darted into the garage, then back toward the door opening, then deep into the garage again. More silence, and Will didn't see the light anymore. But he knew the intruder was still there, on the other side of the door.

Will wondered where the flashlight beam was. Then something made him look down, and he saw the light sweeping back and forth under the door, back and forth over his feet. For a long, absurd moment, Will's terror was suspended. Had the man outside seen his feet? Should he stand on tiptoes?

“Shafer, are you there? It's Raines.”

“Raines! Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Will came out from behind the door, saw the smiling face behind the amber shooting glasses. Still holding the jack handle, he put his other arm around the cop's shoulder. “Jesus, Raines. I was scared half to death.”

“You and me both, Shafer.” Raines exhaled deeply, holstered his service revolver, and stepped inside. “Listen, Shafer, I called the FBI in Pittsburgh and left an urgent message for Graham.”

“But you didn't reach him?”

“No. I left word for him to get back here fast.”

“You did? So did I.”

“What'd you find?”

“I don't know everything, but I know Jamie Brokaw was here, right here, just before he was stuck in the ground. The tank he was buried in—it was outfitted right here. Look at that curved metal there, and those torches.”

“Jesus, Shafer. The two guys who ran this garage.”

“Yes, but not just them. Someone else was involved. Took over the whole thing, maybe, and then killed these two.”

“Jesus.”