Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 (9 page)

It was an easier start than I’d expected.

The worst was yet to come.

14

In the dark I stood absolutely still. Looking. Listening. The yards along Bow Street were mostly visible to an extent from each neighboring house. There were fences and some shabby shrubs and small trees. There was an old junk car behind the house and not much else. The back steps were narrow and partially rotted. The back door was half glass and the glass looked hazy and dirty. Nothing about the place or the yard had been cared for in quite some time. The old woman was right. Apathy seemed to reign.

Carefully I went up the steps and tried the door. It was unlocked. It creaked open a few inches, and then I stood there for a moment, frozen in a sort of limbo.

I thought about Simon the boxer. He wasn’t my dog. This wasn’t my house or my town. None of it was my problem or my business. I had my own life and business to manage and maintain. I was a writer who wasn’t writing enough. An employee of a family business. Holiday weekends can be very stressful for my parents. They relied on me to be there for them. From a practical point of view, there was enough on my plate as it was. I didn’t need to wade into someone else’s mess. And this certainly was shaping up to be a hot mess.

But then my thoughts shifted. I remembered Kendra. How obviously distraught she was over Simon. He was a part of her family. A friend she obviously relied on to help her in her difficult situation. I thought of a goofy, friendly dog being tortured. Thought of what sort of people get their kicks from that kind of thing. A little filmstrip of memories passed through my mind. Facebook posts about abused animals. Humane Society ads showing dirty and starved animals. Creatures purposely born and bred to depend on humans, only to be failed by them. I thought of victims and victimizers and the vast gulf between those types of people. How many victimizers could there be in the world? And how many of them cruised along easily without ever running into serious opposition? How many of them ever ran into someone like me?

What would Clint Eastwood do
?

I stepped into the house. Turned and shut the door behind me. I was inside before I could change my mind. Literally and figuratively beyond the point of turning back. The greater problems of the larger world were beyond my reach. But this problem before me now was no reach at all. I was right in the middle of it. If no one stepped up to the plate and did something, nothing would change. Someone had to act. Might as well be me. I was cut out for it.

Clint would be proud
.

The house was pitch dark. The only light was the faint glow of street lights around the outline of window blinds through the dirty glass. The first breath I drew made me regret my decision. It smelled terrible. Beyond terrible. It was a thick stench that made it hard to breathe. Worse than a barn. The smell of years and years of accumulated filth and carelessness. A gas mask would’ve been nice. But even that might have failed to make it tolerable.

The basement door was directly across from the back door. Just like the old woman had said. I went over to it using the lock screen of my phone as a dim flashlight. Turned the knob and let the door pop open.

I was rewarded with a wave of an even worse stench. It was brutal. Like being physically struck by an invisible fist. It was the smell of a damp basement, mold and mildew. Wet dogs and bodily waste. Rotten food and possibly death. It was like everything terrible in the world had teamed up to form one super stench. It wafted up through the open doorway and joined forces with the upstairs stench.

I stepped back for a moment to gather my resolve. Cursed the Bensons silently with every insult I could muster. Lifted my shirt over my nose for a few deep breaths. Nausea is a nasty little enemy. Invisible but very formidable. It can’t be overcome by strength and might alone. Only the mind can disarm it by actively willing itself to ignore it.

I was at a crossroads. An unpleasant one at that. Plenty of horror movies involve dark houses and nasty basements. And they never end well. I certainly wasn’t going to find Martha Stewart down there, baking cookies. That was a very sure bet. At that point a self-respecting Sasquatch would’ve run away holding its nose. But not me. I resolved to stick to my plan and forge ahead.

Moving down onto the first two basement steps, I turned and closed the door behind me. Then used my phone to search for a light switch. I found it and flicked it. The open space below lit up. The stairwell remained fairly dark. I could just see that the door and the entire stairwell were completely covered in foam insulation. It was the kind applied to a house before vinyl siding. The stairwell seemed very narrow. I guessed the foam insulation might be two layers thick for soundproofing purposes. It certainly trapped odors well.

Down into the dungeon I descended. Dreading what I might find. The space below came slowly into view. Judging by the smell I expected to see a dead dog. Thankfully I didn’t. I found no dogs at all, living or dead. Just five empty cages. Not plastic kennels. At the end of a row of four cages stood a much larger metal cage. It looked to have been fashioned out of the components of multiple smaller cages. Maybe it was a larger space for a favored dog to reside in. Or an improvised ring for practice fights. I didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

I looked around at the rest of the basement. It was damp and musty and poorly lit from two naked bulbs. Aside from a furnace and a small workbench at one side, the rest of the space seemed devoted to being a canine prison. The small windows in the cement foundation were painted over with black spray paint. All the walls and the ceiling were tightly insulated, trapping all sounds and smells. There were shelves with bags of cheap dog food. There were choke chains and leashes and a few muzzles hanging from nails driven into the wooden shelves. There were stains on the floor, some so dark that I assumed them to be blood. The grit on the floor reminded me of kitty litter. Or some sort of drying agent. Which made me think they were definitely trying to cover something. There was assorted junk and trash stacked here and there. Dirty blankets and old clothes. In short, John Wayne Gacy’s sort of playground.

There was no sign of Simon the boxer. Therefore there was no point in prolonging my own misery. So I went back up the stairs. Shut off the light. Went through the basement door. Took a breath of the slightly cleaner air. Tried to ignore the taste of filth settling in the roof of my mouth.

Using my phone again for a light, I checked around the rest of the house. The kitchen was a hopeless disaster. The rest of the place wasn’t far behind. Most of the shades were drawn and there were no curtains. The furniture was old and ratty. No one had cared for anything in a very long time. Apathy surely reigned supreme.

It was a creaky old place. I kept stopping and listening to make absolutely sure that I was alone. Now and then a car would pass by and the headlight glow would move through the rooms. Twice I heard muffled voices passing by on the sidewalks. Both times I held my breath until the voices passed.

On the second floor I found two bedrooms. One larger and one smaller, with a bathroom in between. In the smaller bedroom there was nothing of interest. I wasn’t about to search through closets and drawers. That would require some kind of full-body condom for my own protection.

In the larger room I found a huge pile of dirty clothes. It smelled like a locker room. There was a
Scarface
poster on one wall. Classic wannabe cliché. A total disgrace to Mr. Pacino. There was a pipe on a dresser and an ashtray on a table by the bed. It was full of cigarette butts and it smelled like used weed.

Under the little table I noticed a small desktop safe. I knelt down and checked it. The lid was locked. There was no dial for a combination. Just a keyhole. The key I soon discovered was resting openly on the table beside the ashtray. Pure genius. The ghostly light of my phone made the key almost glow. It practically called
here I am
.

I opened the safe and found two boxes of .38 caliber ammo, as well as an impressive stack of cash. At a glance there were a lot of hundreds, in addition to a decent amount of smaller bills. It must have been eight or ten grand. A sizable amount of cash by most standards. Much more than a piggy bank amount.

“Jackpot,” I whispered and pocketed the wads of cash. Then I pocketed the little key. Placed the safe as I’d found it and left the room.

In the bathroom I took notice of the sink. Initially because it was vintage and reminded me of the sink in my grandparents’ Colonial house. Upon closer inspection I realized just how filthy it was. I couldn’t believe that it actually functioned. It was caked with fuzzy scum and was rusty and the bottom had a puddle of standing brown water. Age and neglect and decades of clogs left it unable to completely drain.

I retrieved the little safe key from my pocket. Dropped it down the drain. Pushed the stopper lightly with my pinky, so that it was blocking the drain while appearing to not have been deliberately inserted. Then I turned on the cold water. The pressure was low, but soon enough the shallow sink began to fill. I lowered the stream to halfway and stood back once it began to overflow.

It was a prick move. No excuses. My thought was that maybe one brother would blame the other for forgetting to turn off the water. But really it didn’t matter. They could ignore their own mess. They could get used to that. But they couldn’t ignore a waterfall cascading down the stairs. Their discomfort was my primary objective. When it came time for me to confront them, they’d be annoyed and frustrated. Which played into my favor.

I went back downstairs and outside and took a huge breath of fresh air. The stench of their house was trapped in my nose. But still the outside air was a vast improvement. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth to combat the mild nausea.

The old woman was still sitting on her porch when I went down the drive. It looked like she hadn’t moved since I’d spoken with her. I hoped she hadn’t. I didn’t want to see flashing blue lights coming in my direction.

She said, “I guess you didn’t find your dog.”

“Not exactly. But they certainly are keeping dogs.”

She nodded. “Should I expect to see you again?”

“I’ll be back for sure.”

“Be careful. You’re playing with fire with these two.”

I grinned and said, “Thanks for your concern.”

“I’m not playing,” she said.

“Neither am I. Life is about to get very hard for the Benson brothers.”

She hesitated before whispering, “You’re not going to kill them, are you?”

“Doubtful. Just make them wish they were dead. If they choose to kill themselves, that’s their call.”

She was quiet. After a moment I took the wad of cash from my coat pocket and peeled off a grand and set the pile of bills on the porch railing. The old woman glanced from the cash to me.

I said, “Consider it a parting gift for having to endure nasty neighbors.”

“That’s their money?”

“It was.”

“I can’t take it. It’s dirty money.”

“Do something good with it.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

“Drop it in a donation box if you want, it’s up to you. Makes no difference to me.”

Finally she nodded and said, “You take good care of yourself.”

I said, “Same to you.”

“I really mean it. Be very careful, young man. These aren’t good people.”

I thanked her again for her genuine concern. Said good night and walked back to my van.

15

Frank was anxiously awaiting my return.

“Who’s a good boy?” I asked, sliding into the van.

He thumped his tail like a hammer and made Chewbacca sounds.

I peeled off my gloves, turning them inside out. Balled them up and tossed them in the trash bag on the passenger floor. Then I gave my overeager sidekick a good scratching as he forced his way between the front seats. I told him he was good for waiting patiently. He panted his replies. It almost sounded like he was saying, “Yeah. Ha-ha. Yeah.”

Then his glee gave way to curiosity. He commenced to giving me a thorough inspection. He sniffed and blew out the strange odors clinging to me from the house of horrors. Judging by his face, he didn’t like the smell of dogs and death and filth. It must have been worse for him. His nose is a hundred thousand times more capable than mine. Humans might smell spaghetti sauce simmering, for instance, while dogs can distinguish each individual ingredient.

“Sorry, man,” I said, and set him at ease with more scratches and a treat. All in all it was a nice little bonding session before getting on the road.

But we didn’t go straight home. Because obsession is a powerful force. Almost as irresistible as magnetism.

I ended up going down Bow Street again and turning onto Circle Drive. There were lights on and two cars in the drive. I passed by and came back onto Bow, but this time turned right and went up the hill to the old cemetery. Went through the graveyard onto a dirt road that linked to a larger side street. Got back to Central Street a few miles across town.

We still didn’t go home. We ended up in Trenton at Neil’s Lounge. The parking lot was about half full. Kendra hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it was a nice place. It looked nice inside. Fancy but not too fancy. Almost like the sort of place that might cater a casual wedding reception or a family reunion. There was a good smell in the air. It helped me forget the awful Benson stench. There was mellow music playing. The lights were low. People were talking without being obnoxiously loud.

Kendra was behind the long bar. She was wearing a white shirt with a black tie. She looked good. She looked classy. She seemed happy to be chatting with everyone. If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have guessed she was struggling through the loss of a friend.

I moved along the bar. Found a few open seats down at the far end. Sat down and leaned on the bar. Then Kendra looked over and noticed me. She moved quickly in my direction after poring someone’s drink. She was practically bouncing like Tigger. The lights were low, but I could easily see the hope in her expression.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Don’t get excited,” I warned her. “I haven’t found him yet.”

“Oh,” she exhaled. She lost a full inch in height.

“The boys weren’t home. I snooped around their nasty house a bit. They’re definitely keeping dogs there.”

“You broke right in?”

“The door was open. I just walked in.”

Her eyes got wide. “No way could I do that.”

“It wasn’t fun. The place is a hellhole.”

“When I saw you sitting here, I was hoping—”

“Stay calm,” I said. I looked around real quick to make sure no one was within earshot. “I think we have the right people. And even if we don’t, when I catch up with them, I’ll make them tell me who the right people are. We’ll find Simon.”

Kendra nodded. Her mind was going fast and she was working hard to steady herself and maintain her upbeat appearance.

“I found a good amount of cash,” I told her next. “I just counted almost thirteen grand.”

“Who keeps that much cash?”

“Not me.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe their saving to get their grandma an operation.”

“Neil knows who the big sellers are around here,” she said. “He says the Bensons aren’t serious sellers, if they sell at all. He’s never heard of them.”

“How exactly does Neil know?”

She shrugged.

Maybe Neil actually did know what he was talking about. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just a restaurateur who wished he was a little more of a big deal. I didn’t say anything either way. Obviously Kendra liked him and trusted his word. No need to rain on her parade.

I asked, “What’s good to eat?”

She handed me a menu and pointed out a few of her personal favorites. It was a big menu with color photos of some of the dishes. Everything looked good. It was a hell of a decision. I decided on a calzone.

“How about a drink?”

“Bottled water.”

“Live a little,” she said. “Have a beer.”

“Just water. Please.”

She got me a water and put up the order and then had to tend to a few other customers. I was sitting there with my forearms on the bar. I had on a fresh pair of gloves, which I regarded for a moment before rolling my hands in toward my chest, to keep them out of view.

Within a few seconds I got the definite feeling that I was being stared at. From the corner of my eye I saw a guy down the bar looking steadily at me.

I stared straight back at him. My aim being to embarrass him. Thus get him to look away.

It didn’t work.

He got off his stool and came over and took the empty one beside me. I stared straight at Kendra, hoping she would return and save me from a conversation I didn’t wish to have.

“Germs?” the guy finally asked.

“Evan,” I said.

“You have gloves on.”

“Do I?”

He laughed. He wasn’t terribly drunk. But definitely buzzed and happy. Looking for someone to chat with. Barking up the wrong tree.

I said, “I like pizza.”

“So do I, friend. I’ll drink to that.”

I said, “My house is made of pizza.”

He laughed again and asked, “You her boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Friend?”

“Yoga instructor.”

“She’s happy to see you. I know that much.”

I took a sip of water, said, “That’s because I just saved her a bundle on her car insurance.”

He laughed out loud. So loud that people were looking at us. Much louder than the weak joke deserved. His breath smelled like beer and peanuts.

Then he hit my shoulder. It was only a friendly pat. But still very unwelcomed contact. I get very edgy around drunk people. Experience has taught me not to trust them. On my own turf, I can simply toss them out at my own discretion. Get rid of the problem. But in public it’s different. I’m not the law. And no one has ever accused me of being a great diplomat.

Up the bar I saw Kendra looking over at us. I made strong eye contact with her. I’m not sure that I believe in telekinesis. But I was definitely trying to employ it. To will her to come over and get this guy away from me.

Instead she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Then reappeared with a stout man in a nice suit following her. He was around her height and at least twice as wide. At first I couldn’t tell if he was old with a young face, or young with an old face.

“Here she comes,” the drunk guy said. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Troy,” Kendra said with a smile. “You’re getting a little silly, my friend. That’s your last drink for the night.”

The stout man said, “I’ll call you a cab, Troy.”

“Aw, Neil, you’re no fun,” Troy said. But he was still smiling.

I said to Kendra, “Do you need this guy tossed or what?”

She frowned and leaned over close and said, “He’s harmless. Just a lonely guy who comes in here some nights for company.”

“Maybe if he drank less people would want to hang out with him.”

The stout man, Neil, made a quick phone call. Then he leaned on the bar and spoke quietly with Troy. I could just hear him saying something like, “Fun is okay. But not too much fun.”

Kendra said to me, “Chill out. Okay?”

I nodded and sipped my water. Apparently her experiences with drunks were a little different than my own. Maybe I’d jumped the gun a little. I’m always waiting for some kind of a brawl to erupt. Because they usually do.

After a minute Neil came over and stood across from me. Kendra moved away again, and with a strong Boston accent, Neil said, “So you’re after the bastards, eh.”

“After who?”

“You know. She told me all about it. The girl has been miserable since they stole that silly dog of hers.”

“She tell you my name?”

He shook his head. The overhead lights moved on his shiny bald head. His stout arms were extended straight out. His palms were pressed to the inner edge or the bar. He appeared settled in for a lengthy discourse.

I said, “Yeah, I’m after them.”

“What have you found?”

“Plenty of evidence. But not them personally. Yet.”

“No dog?”

“Not yet.”

He nodded and said, “You’ve got cold eyes, my man. I saw them change from when you spoke with her to when you spoke with me. They changed in a blink.”

I kept quiet. Gave him the Eastwood stare.

Neil smiled and said, “I think you’re the right man to fix this problem.”

“Someone’s got to.”

“I am a business man. A man of financial decisions, not a man of action. I can’t help her in that way.”

I said nothing and took another sip of water. The bottle was getting low.

“I haven’t always lived here,” he said.

“Let me guess … Mississippi.”

No smile. He just said, “Boston.” Like it wasn’t obvious.

I nodded.

“And I’ve been around some colorful people in my day. I’ve made some money and some friends and a few enemies along the way. Now I’ve retired to the country. But just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’ve lost my eye for people. I consider myself an excellent judge of character.”

I nodded again. Didn’t know what to say. I was waiting for him to say he was related to Whitey Bulger. Maybe it was just a show, to sound like an old Boston player. Either way I didn’t care. No matter who he was, he couldn’t tell me anything about myself I didn’t already know.

He said, “Kendra tells me you’re a bouncer.”

“Sort of.”

He whispered, “Is that why you’re wearing a gun in my establishment?”

I looked at him.

“I saw the print under your coat.”

“I’ve got the paperwork.”

“And the attitude.”

“Sure,” I said. “I can be friendly. Or not. Whatever.”

“Then you’re like me in a way. You can gauge people quickly. But unlike me, you have the imposing physical presence to do something about it.”

“The mystery of genetics.”

He shook his head. “There are plenty of big guys around. Some bigger than you. Not all of them are the real thing. One look and I knew you were either an athlete or a fighter.”

I said, “Actually, I write fantasy fiction for a living.”

Neil laughed suddenly. It was a deep belly laugh. He was done evaluating me and ready to lighten up. His squinty eyes disappeared as he laughed and his big Irish face turned pink. He turned Kendra’s way as she came near.

“No worries,” he assured her. “This cold bastard can turn on the ice with a switch. He’ll take care of everything.”

“I guess he likes you,” she said.

I watched Neil move away and escort drunk Troy to the door. He handed him cash, presumably for the taxi. He ran his business intelligently with a close eye. I looked back at Kendra.

“Lucky me.”

She gave me a look.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Unsociable. Your dinner should be ready soon.”

“You want results or a chatterbox?”

She laughed. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“I trust dogs. Everyone else has to earn my respect.”

“Well, at least you don’t make anyone play guessing games. Kudos for that.”

“Listen,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about the money. When they realize they’ve been robbed, they might get nervous and a little desperate. That’s a lot of cash to lose.”

“They’ll want Simon’s reward money.”

“That’s my guess.”

“I really don’t want to talk to them.”

“Don’t answer. Let them squirm a little. Maybe they’ll leave a message. If they do, we’ll know for sure they’re hurting for money.”

“How does that help us?” she asked. “Why do we care?”

I leaned forward and said quietly, “Most people get nervous when they sense themselves losing control. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Makes sense, yeah.”

“If they’re nervous, then the odds will tip in our favor. Scared people don’t always make the best decisions. If everything seems upside down, most people only think about getting right side up again. Getting things back under control.”

“They’re distracted. Preoccupied.”