Abram's Bridge (5 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Heath Barnes hated Jase. Jase adopted him when he was two, but only to win his mother over. The guy couldn’t care less if he were alive or dead. Straight As didn’t impress him. First place in the Coral County writing competition, and the youngest author to ever be published in a
Best of Horror Anthology
didn’t matter. If anything, the accomplishments seemed to make him more invisible.

Heath’s mother was still a great mom, when she wasn’t tied up with one of Jase’s stupid town functions, or retreats.

Outside of that, the only person who seemed to care at all about him was his papa, and even that felt more like someone just keeping an eye on him in case of…well, who knows. Maybe he cared and didn’t know how to show it, or maybe he was holding on to see if his grandkid’s properly functioning brain paid off down the road. Whatever the old man’s reason, Papa Schultz was there. He was present. All Heath had to do was ride his bike down to the library, and there he was.

Papa Schultz was his biological dad’s dad. Heath was forbidden to have any contact with his real dad, per both Papa and his mother. The guy was a head case, a drunk and a grade A scumbag. When your own father says these things about you, it’s more than a bad relationship. His mother had been young and misguided, hooking up with his dad, getting pregnant and having to forgo college to raise him. Where Papa’s hatred came from was still a bit of an enigma, and afternoons at the library were notably less awkward when conversations about his real dad were avoided.

Tonight, his mom and Jase were in New Hampshire, doing one of their vacation/conference combos. They’d left him with Papa Schultz when he was a kid. Now that he was almost thirteen, he got to try a weekend at home alone. At least they’d acknowledged that he was responsible.

Mother had told him to phone Papa if at any point he became uncomfortable. He doubted that would happen. And if he did call Papa, it would be over that curious Sawyer kid. Heath had overheard him asking Papa about some missing girl. Papa had put on his big white smile, but Heath knew the old man’s faux faces when he saw them. After the Sawyer kid left, Papa fidgeted, stroked his goatee and rapped his fingers on every flat piece of wood furnishing in the building, practically hopping up and down to have the library to himself. Heath had felt the long, antsy stares; he’d finally given in to the old man’s anxiety attack and headed home.

What his papa didn’t know was that he had circled back and watched him through the basement window as the old man tossed the newspapers the Sawyer kid had been looking at in the building’s still-functional furnace. While his interest was already piqued by his papa’s public antics with Sawyer, the latter display made the old town mystery impossible to dismiss.

Maybe a twelve-year-old boy, even a responsible one, needed supervision after all. Heath would be visiting his papa in the morning.

Chapter Sixteen

Li’l Ron was out the door by 9:00 a.m. His nan was gone, his father too.

His father had known her. That’s what he’d said. She was a
friend of a friend
. Who? Who was this friend? The man who’d threatened him last night? It had to be, didn’t it?

Li’l Ron wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything right now except that he had to speak with Sweet Kate. He needed to know more.

He hopped on his bike, pedaling past a truck parked across from Mr. Henley’s house. Hunters weren’t supposed to be this close to houses.
The woods are pretty dense out here though,
he supposed. The guy or girl could’ve trekked through the marsh and up into the hills. The license plate read
SGS
. Li’l Ron wondered if it was an acronym. If it was, he didn’t know it. He pumped his legs, propelling his chariot onward.

Stefan Schultz finished pissing behind the big pine tree, zipping his fly and turning in time to see the Sawyer boy pedaling past his truck and heading away from town. He picked up his hunting rifle—part of his ruse, he hadn’t hunted in years, but it would serve to answer any questions about his being here—and made his way through the murky waters and weeds to where his pickup sat. He had a feeling he knew where the kid was heading.

Nosey little fuck.

The bridge came into sight as Li’l Ron coasted his Huffy down around the bend (the wind surprisingly warm, the song of the creek already audible).

Sweet Kate stood like a goddess, the morning’s sunlight bathing her untouchable grace in gold. Given a reprieve from the deep chill of autumn, the 63-degree air was sweet, invigorating and clean. Sweet Kate’s smile—a rare, precious flower in this bleak, barely breathing town—momentarily shifted his reason for coming.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said; her voice even sounded more melodious.

“It is,” he said, lost in her wonder.

“Come, I want to try something with you.”

She was standing in her normal place among the rocks just before the creek, barefoot, crystal-eyed, her white dress with the dark stain moving only with her sway.

“Take off your shoes,” she said. “No, stop, leave them there. Your socks too.”

He did as she commanded, her highness, his queen.

“Come on, silly, come take my hand.”

Their fingers interlocked. She helped him maintain his balance as he tried to step over the smaller, pointier rocks jutting up from the trickling waters.

He watched her dip her feet in—the water, undisturbed, didn’t notice—and then obliged as she nodded for him to do the same.

“Holy shit, that’s fucking cold,” he said, dancing his feet in and out of the arctic creek.

She laughed, never letting go.

“Oh yeah, I see. Real funny. Easy for you when you can’t even feel it.”

She tucked her free hand across her tummy, covering the red stain, and continued hawing over his discomfort. It wasn’t long before he gave in, joining in her mirth.

She straightened up, her lips blue with death, her eyes still smiling, and took his other hand. “There’s just something about the little contradictions in a day like this,” she said.

Li’l Ron’s throat was dry, his stomach fluttering as she stepped to him. “Ah…how-how’s that?” he said, trying not to let his tingling nerves get the best of him.

“You see this gorgeous day. The sun, brilliant and warm; the creek, chirping with life and rushing along, carefree. The air even tastes sweeter, like it’s filled with the promise of something even better to come, but then you step into reality, into the truth. It’s cold. The cold is still there, waiting. It’s like a natural illusion, ya know?”

Staring at her, he knew all too well.

“I came down here because I need to ask you some more questions,” he said, breaking free from her dreamy presence.

Her smiling eyes drooped as she sighed and stared at their tangled hands. “I know. I knew you’d want more. I probably said too much.”

He hunched down below her chin, looking back up into her face, catching those blue eyes.

“Don’t you want everyone to know the truth?” he said. “I read more about that idea—how you might be trapped here because the truth is buried.”

“Nobody cares. They never did. Why should it matter now?”

“I care,” he said. “I think…I think you deserve to be free. And if I can uncover what happened…well, maybe… It can’t hurt to try, right?”

Sweet Kate wrapped her arms around him. She was doing her tearless crying again.

“I thought I knew who it was, I mean, after you said his name, I thought for sure…but I think I was wrong.” He held her shoulders, feeling the chill against his palms. “Can you tell me what this Greg looked like?”

She closed her eyes.

“He was a little taller than you. Curly, blond hair, eyes narrow but thoughtful…like Josey Wales,” she said. “He smelled like cigarettes and beer most of the time, but other times he smelled like, like dust, like something old and musty. He had good lips, kissable lips, and strong hands.”

Definitely not my dad,
Li’l Ron thought.

“And you’re sure his name was Greg?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes, that’s what he told me. What reason would he have to lie?”

Li’l Ron bit his bottom lip, staring at the water splashing up over a round rock by their feet. “His girlfriend.”

“What?”

He looked up, no longer feeling the cold water around his ankles. Whether from his body going numb or from the electricity surging through his veins at the moment, he couldn’t tell.

“You said he had a girlfriend he would complain about to you. That she treated him like crap. That she told him she was pregnant.”

“Yes…” Sweet Kate looked lost.

“He didn’t want to get caught. He didn’t want you blathering to somebody in town. Didn’t want word to get out. He didn’t want to lose you, or her, I suppose.”

“So he gave me a fake name?”

“It makes sense. I bet he never gave you his full name.”

Sweet Kate looked hurt. He’d forgotten that she’d actually loved this psychopath. Even after he raped her, she still loved him. Who else did she have?

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to get so excited,” he offered.

“No, it’s okay, but I think he did.”

“Did? Did what?”

“I think the first time he came down…when we introduced ourselves…he gave me a name, a full name.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t…I can’t remember.”

Li’l Ron believed her.

“I’m sorry, Li’l Ron. I can’t remember what he said. I just keep hearing Greg.”

“I have to go,” he said, letting go of her, stepping from the creek. He wiggled his wet feet into his sneakers.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I think my father knows more than he’s telling me,” he said, gazing back at her crystal eyes, the compulsion to save her filling his veins with gasoline.

“Li’l Ron,” she said.

“Yes, Sweet Kate?”

“Be careful.”

Chapter Seventeen

Heath Barnes opened the door. “Hello? Papa?”

“In here,” the old man’s low voice boomed from around the corner.

Heath stepped inside. The smell of carrots and celery tickled his nose. Papa had a thing for soups. He won Best Beef Stew at the Coral County Fair any time he chose to enter. Heath’s stomach growled; he hadn’t even been hungry.

He walked into the cozy kitchen. A young Johnny Cash stared back at him from the clock on the flower-patterned wallpaper. Papa loved country music, old country. Cash was his favorite. The wallpaper was one of his nana’s final touches to the home before she had passed several years back. There was a honky-tonk song playing from Papa’s old record player in the next room. The old man, dressed in an apron—he loved to look official when crafting his masterpieces—was humming along, moving from the small counter space to his right with a noticeable bounce in his step.

“That smells great,” Heath said, setting his backpack next to the kitchen table. Two bowls were already out, silverware too.

“It oughta, won first place—”

“Two years straight. I know. And well worthy of both honors,” Heath said.

“It should be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Papa Schultz said, tapping the wooden spoon against the silver pot and placing it down on the counter. He turned to Heath. “So, you finally get the freedom you’ve been telling me you’re ready for, house to yourself, and you decide to come stay here. Is it that lonely up in that big house?”

Heath wasn’t about to tell his real reason for coming. He just went along. “Jase’s collection of creepy dolls just run out of interesting things to say so quickly. You can only listen to so many vaudeville jokes so many times,” he said. Jase’s creepy dolls were his collection of collectible wooden dummies. His ventriloquist dolls were part of his small fortune.

“Uh-huh. So it must be the food you’re after. Kids today wouldn’t survive without a microwave.”

“I’m surprised, but grateful that you’re home,” Heath said. “I thought for sure you’d be at the library.”

“I was going to, but when you called, I decided to ask Lorraine if she wanted an extra day this week. So here we are,” Papa said.

Heath visualized again the man tossing papers into the furnace.

“What was that Ronnie Sawyer up to the other day?” he asked, hoping the question sounded casual.

“Oh that,” Papa said, picking up his spoon and turning back to his stew. “Nothing, the boy was simply asking for help finding what he was looking for. A school project.”

Heath would have to proceed with caution.

“I heard something about a girl—a runaway or something?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It was a sad tale, but unfortunately not a very uncommon one,” he said, lifting the spoon to his mouth and, smacking his lips, testing the batch. “What the Sawyer boy’s paper is going to be about, I don’t know.”

“He didn’t say?”

“He did not.”

Heath treaded onward. “Did you know her? The runaway?”

“Not really. She was a strange child. Not many friends,” Papa said.

Heath watched as he tapped the spoon, setting it down again, then walking to the table. Heath’s heart was beating a step faster than normal. Why was he so worried about his papa? He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t deny the fear. His overactive mind imagined the old man walking over to him, slamming his fist on the table and telling him to drop it. Drop it or you’re going into the furnace next! Instead, his papa picked up the two bowls, carrying them to the stove.

“Not many enemies then either, I guess,” Heath said.

His papa stopped, spoon in hand, staring down into the steaming stew.

“No, no. I wouldn’t think so,” he finally said. He doled out two spoonfuls for each of them, put the spoon down, took off the apron and brought the award-winning sustenance to the table.

Heath had overheard the year the girl ran away—2000, the year before he was born. He wanted to ask if his father,
his real father
, may have known the girl. His papa had yet to look at him since sitting down. He figured it best to let things be for the moment.

He brought the aromatic deliciousness up to his lips and blew. Looking at the combination of freshly chopped vegetables, spices and large pieces of beef, he appreciated the amount of calculation and preparation his papa put into crafting each stew. He thought of the basement furnace again and wondered just how calculating and crafty his papa was at other things.