Death Falls (17 page)

She moved around the side of the house and into the backyard, where the grass was lower and the wildlife less prominent. But it was louder there, with the roar of Sunset Falls blasting through the woods. Kat caught glimpses of it through the trees, streaks of water descending rapidly.

There wasn’t much to see in the backyard—a woodpile, a clothesline, a meager strip of garden that proved Glenn Stewart stepped outside at least sometimes. He also apparently drove. A rusted Volkswagen van sat under a carport that had seen better days. Kat didn’t know if the van was in running condition—it certainly didn’t look drivable—but it had to have been at some point.

Peering upward again, she saw the widow’s walk perched on the center of the roof like an antique hat. It was higher than the trees and probably provided a good view of both the waterfall and the bridge just upstream from it. Had Glenn been up there that night, he could have seen Charlie Olmstead pedaling innocently on his bike toward the falls.

But he had told the police he was asleep at that hour, an alibi that could neither be confirmed nor denied. He could have been lying, of course. He could have been up on that widow’s walk, watching the neighbor boy make his way toward the bridge. Then he could have climbed down from his perch, rushed through the woods, and snuck up behind the unsuspecting boy.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice, suddenly breaking the silence of the yard, startled Kat.

“Mr. Stewart? Is that you?”

“I asked you a question.”

The voice wasn’t angry. It didn’t contain enough emotion for that. It was more flat and weary, as if its owner had been expecting her presence for a very long time. Shielding her eyes, Kat tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. Rows of windows ran along all three stories of the house. Most of them were closed. One, on the second floor, was open, but the shade had been drawn.

“I’m Chief Campbell, with the Perry Hollow police.”

“I know,” the voice said. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m here to talk about Charlie Olmstead.”

The shade covering the window—as yellowed and brittle as parchment—rose slowly. Mr. Stewart stood just beyond it, a shadowy figure with no discernible features. The only thing Kat could see clearly was an animal nestled in Glenn’s arms. Much longer than a cat, it had slick brown fur dotted with patches of white. Tiny paws swatted the air, and when the animal poked its head into the light, Kat saw a band of black across its eyes.

Glenn Stewart was holding a ferret.

“That’s a beautiful animal.”

The shadow in the window moved slightly, head tipping forward in a nod. “The compliment is appreciated.”

“May I come inside and see it?”

“You may not.”

“It would be helpful if we could speak face-to-face.”

“We are,” Glenn replied. “In a sense.”

Kat sighed. “Did you know the Olmsteads well?”

“No. As you can tell, I prefer not to socialize.”

“Why is that?” Kat knew there had to be a reason. Agoraphobia was the most likely one. Plain old insanity also could have been the cause.

“Personal preference.”

“Do you ever go outside?”

“I do,” Glenn said. “But not in the daytime. I don’t particularly care for the sun.”

“How do you get your groceries?”

“They’re delivered to my door every Tuesday. You can ask the manager at the Shop and Save.”

“When was the last time you left the house?”

“Chief Campbell, these don’t sound like questions about Charles Olmstead.”

“Fine,” Kat said. “In 1969, you told my father you were asleep when he disappeared. Is that true?”

“If I said it to the police, then it must be.”

“And you didn’t see anything that night? Hear anything suspicious?”

“If I had,” Glenn said, “I would have reported it to your father.”

Kat was keenly aware that he was being annoying on purpose, hoping he’d wear out her patience and make her leave. What Glenn Stewart didn’t know is that she was the mother of an eleven-year-old boy with special needs. Patience was the chief job requirement, and she could wait out behavior that would bring other mothers to tears.

“Why weren’t you watching the moon landing like everyone else?”

“Why would I?”

“Because it was historic,” Kat said.

“It was foolish,” Glenn countered. “Man wasn’t meant to go to the moon. Not back then and certainly not now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s not God’s will. Of all the creatures on earth, humans are the only ones who think they’re better than nature, that they can overcome it. Of course, they’re wrong. Any attempt to prove otherwise is a violation of what God created.”

“A violation?”

“Of course,” Glenn said. “Some things are best left undisturbed. If God had intended us to walk upon the moon, he would have given us that ability.”

“But he did give us that ability,” Kat replied. “Through science, knowledge, and critical thinking, man learned that ability.”

“I don’t think we’re discussing the same God. Not that it matters. We’ve spoken enough. Good day.”

The shade began to descend slowly, blocking Mr. Stewart’s silhouette and the ferret still in his arms. Before it was fully down, Kat blurted out, “I have one more question.”

The shade halted its descent. Glenn Stewart’s voice emanated from the six-inch space between the shade’s bottom and the windowsill. “Yes?”

“What happened to you in Vietnam?”

“Enlightenment,” Glenn said. “Glorious enlightenment.”

He lowered the shade the rest of the way, leaving Kat alone in his yard. Resigned to defeat, she trudged to the front of the house. When she reached the street, she found herself facing the former Clark residence. The
FOR SALE
sign in the yard swayed slightly in the breeze. The photograph of Ginger Schultz, Perry Hollow’s only Realtor, moved with it, a blur of chubby cheeks and bad perm.

Kat crossed the street and steadied the sign. She then pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number emblazoned across the bottom of the sign. Ginger herself answered with a perky and unabashedly scripted “Schultz Realty. Let me find you a dream home.”

Kat already had a dream home, thank you very much. Yet she pretended otherwise as she greeted her old school friend.

“Ginger? It’s Kat Campbell. There’s a house for sale in town that I want to take a look at.”

Some people are born to be Realtors. Ginger Schultz was one of them. Plump and friendly, she expressed awe and excitement about everything from Kat’s uniform to the azalea bush outside the former home of Mort and Ruth Clark.

“It’s beautiful in early summer,” she said while unlocking the front door. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

Ginger held the door open and Kat stepped inside, taking a good look around. The house was devoid of furniture, carpeting, even color. Their footfalls rose from the hardwood floors, bounced off the ceiling, and died against walls painted a blinding white.

“There are so many things you can do with this space,” Ginger said as they moved to a living room as clean and bare as a monastery. “It’s so versatile. I assume that’s what you’re looking for. Versatility. You never did tell me why you’re interested in this place.”

Kat wasn’t quite sure herself. She didn’t think the Clarks had anything to do with Charlie Olmstead or any of the other missing boys, and she was certain there’d be no clues to be gleaned from the house even if they did. She was more interested in the sight lines their home offered. If the Clarks had intriguing views of the Santangelo residence or Glenn Stewart’s house, she wanted to know what they were.

“James and I are getting tired of our place,” she lied. “We’re thinking about finding something with more space.”

“This has oodles of space. I think you two would love it here.”

In the kitchen, Kat gave a cursory glance at the cupboards and peeked under the sink just for show. Then it was upstairs, where she bypassed the bathroom for the two bedrooms. The largest one fronted the street, with two windows that faced the homes across from it. The window on the right provided a diagonal view of the Olmstead house. Kat peered out of it, looking for signs that Eric had returned. She saw nothing.

She moved to the window on the left, which offered a head-on view of Glenn Stewart’s place. Its large, eyelike windows blankly stared back.

“This house was built in 1940 by the original owners,” Ginger said.

“Mort and Ruth Clark?”

“Yes.” Ginger giggled. She did that almost as much as she raved about how wonderful everything was. “You’ve really done your homework about this place.”

The second bedroom was smaller than the other one, with a slightly vaulted ceiling and a quaint octagonal window near the door. While Ginger prattled on about how it would be a perfect room for James, Kat approached the window. It overlooked the side of the yard that faced the creek. There wasn’t much there—a small strip of grass that quickly stopped at a thick wall of trees. Slips of the creek beyond could be seen through the branches. Kat heard the rush of the water, too, with the roar of Sunset Falls dull in the distance.

Turning her head to the right, she could make out a sliver of the street and the mouth of the path that led through the woods. Craning her neck, she saw a bit of the bridge, which practically blended in with the trees. She assumed it was possible that whatever happened to Charlie Olmstead could have been seen from that window.

Kat was about to move from the window when she caught a glimpse of something else in the yard. It was on the far edge of the property, sitting in the spot where the lawn conceded defeat to the trees. Painted white and boasting a roof of green shingles, it looked like some kind of shed. Only sheds were usually bigger. The one in Kat’s backyard was large enough to hold a lawn tractor, a spare tire, and a collection of sporting equipment that she and James never used. This structure looked like it wouldn’t even be able to contain one of her son’s sleds.

“What’s that building over there?”

Ginger giggled yet again and said, “You spotted the springhouse. It’s useless now, of course, but it’s a real conversation piece. Adds so much character.”

Kat didn’t hear the rest. She was too busy descending the stairs and looking for the back door. By the time Ginger emerged from the house, Kat had already crossed the yard and was well on her way to the mysterious structure. Once she reached it, Kat could instantly see it was definitely not a springhouse.

The door didn’t budge when she tried to open it. Neglect could be an amazing lock sometimes. So could wood rot. The shack had seen plenty of both.

“There’s no reason to look inside,” Ginger said once she caught up with Kat. “Think of it as decoration.”

“Was this part of the original house?”

Hesitation slowed the Realtor’s voice. “I believe it was added a few years later.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Kat marched out of the yard and across the street, where her Crown Vic still sat parked in the Olmstead driveway. Popping the trunk, she pulled out a crowbar and carried it all the way back to the Clarks’ mystery shack.

Without shooing Ginger out of the way, she shoved the crowbar between the door and its frame and gave a hearty push. The door hesitated and the hinges protested, but soon it was open, letting Kat take a good look inside. What she saw was an empty structure sitting on a concrete foundation. In the center was a smooth door that looked like the hatch of a submarine. Kat gave a tug on the handle, discovering that the door was heavier than she expected. It was made of lead, most likely, and built to withstand a giant impact.

Behind Kat, Ginger stood frozen in the doorway. “I was going to tell you about it. Eventually.”

“What is it?”

“A bomb shelter,” Ginger said. “According to my records, the Clarks built it in the fifties. It’s the main reason this house hasn’t sold. It freaks out most potential buyers.”

Kat was sure as hell unnerved by it. It brought to mind nuclear Armageddon, terror and chaos—things she didn’t care to think about. Its presence also shed an unflattering light on the home’s former owners. What kind of people lived in such fear that they built an underground bunker on their property?

“Is anything still down there?”

“I don’t know,” Ginger said. “I’ve never looked.”

Kat gripped the handle of the door. “Help me open it. We’re about to find out.”

With Ginger’s assistance, Kat managed to heave the door open, revealing a circular hatch with a metal ladder clinging to the side. Peering into it, Kat saw only the ladder’s first three rungs. The rest were engulfed by darkness.

Kat removed the flashlight from her duty belt and pointed it inside the hole. The meager circle of light it created illuminated the rest of the ladder, which descended about ten feet. Handing the flashlight to Ginger, she said, “Hold it steady and keep it pointed down.”

“You’re not really going to go down there, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

Kat stepped into the hole and tested her weight against the ladder’s first rung. After yesterday’s close call on the bridge, she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. When the first rung held her up, she tested each subsequent one, slowly making her way deeper into the bomb shelter.

It was much colder at the bottom—so frigid it felt like she had descended into a freezer. It was also dark. Kat couldn’t see a thing.

“Drop the flashlight,” she called up to Ginger. “I need more light.”

Standing by the ladder, she held out her hands. When Ginger dropped the light, Kat caught it easily. Swooping it back and forth, she saw that the shelter itself was a large cylinder. Roughly ten feet long, its walls arched overhead, broken every few feet by support beams that resembled ribs. Along one side, empty shelves had been suspended from the beams. Beneath those was a long bench. On the other side of the shelter, three flats rose along the wall, one above the other. Each was about six feet long, and they shared the same support beams at their corners.

Bunk beds, in case they had to be down there a long time.

The mattresses had long since been removed, but Kat easily pictured them there, stacked on the flats just like in a crowded train compartment. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, but it would do in case of an emergency.