The Fort (14 page)

“You see what I mean?” Tracy asked when he stood up. “That girl is gone. I’ll do my best—you guys know that—but I’m not sure there’s anything here to learn, aside from the fact that it was one evil motherfucker who did this to her.” Two stretcher-bearing EMTs interrupted him as they walked down the path.

“I want everything you can get,” said Van Endel, “even the stuff you think is nothing, all right?”

Tracy nodded, and Van Endel and Dr. Martinez made their way back up the path to the detective’s car.

They were silent for the most part as they drove, Van Endel processing the day so far, and Dr. Martinez no doubt doing the same. The boys’ prank had done this much good, anyway: it had launched the search that had led a police dog to the corpse. Not that they’d meant to do it, of course, but it was something, and it was far more than he’d had to go on before. It was tough to feel anything but bad about it, though. Finding the body eliminated hope completely. Molly had been found, just not the right way.

“You’re going to find him, Dick,” said Dr. Martinez. “You have to. I know that you feel a life is a life, and that this girl’s death should be no more important than any of this bastard’s other victims, and I agree with that. But the brutality of this…there was just no reason to ruin her the way he did, none at all.”

“Unless we’re missing something and there
is
a reason. It would hardly be a surprise at this point. Everyone else is messing with us, why not throw in a perp with motivations that are impossible to understand?”

There was something tugging at Van Endel’s brain, and he let it work away while they drove to a pay phone so he could tell Chief Jefferson he was going to need to make a horrible phone call.

I’m missing something, but what?

28

Hooper woke alone, his face glued by sweat to the thick shag of the carpet in the front room. The phone was ringing in the kitchen, and he stood unsteadily to make his way to it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt pasted shut. He turned on the sink and sank his head into its metal bowl to drink. Finally, he pulled himself out and answered the still-ringing phone.

“Hello,” said Hooper.

“Hoop? That you?” said a voice that Hooper could recognize but not place with his scrambled brain. He sat heavily on the floor, the phone teetering ominously on the counter as he sank to the ground.

“Yeah, this is Hooper. Who’s this?”

“Carl, buddy. You sound like shit. Everything OK?”

Hooper smiled despite the pain in his leg and the throbbing in his head. Thank God it was just Carl. “No, I’m sicker than a dying dog. Fucking summer colds are the worst.”

“You’re damn straight they are. Listen, I was just calling to confirm working on the car tomorrow, but I figure you’re probably not up for that.”

Hooper smiled again. He’d forgotten about his plans for tomorrow completely. “No, sorry, man. I got to take a pass on that. I’ll let you know when I’m better. We can hook up.”

“That’d be great. My crazy stepson got into some shit today. Wait’ll you hear it. It will blow your mind. I’d been feeling like he and I were the only sane ones over here, but now I’m on my own. Him and his buddies just went batshit.”

“Can’t wait,” said Hooper, his vision blurring. What the fuck did he care about Carl’s kids?

“Listen, I’m not doing anything,” Carl said. “Why don’t I have Beth make you up some of her famous chicken soup, and I can run it on over?”

“No,” said Hooper, too quickly and too harshly. “I don’t want to pass this thing around. Trust me, it’s a killer.” He chuckled. “Believe me, do yourself a favor and stay away from here for a day or two, all right?”

“All right, buddy,” said Carl, but Hooper was still afraid his friend really thought he should stop by.
And if he does I’ll probably have to kill him. He’d call an ambulance if he saw me now, and once they dig that bullet out of my leg the cops will get a warrant in no time.
“But if you change your mind,” continued Carl, “let me know, OK?”

“Will do,” said Hooper, before pulling the phone off of the counter onto the floor with a crash, righting the base, and then replacing the handset to disconnect the call.
Christ.

He was thirstier and more nauseous than he’d ever been since Vietnam. He slowly pulled himself up and slid, using the counter as support, to the sink. He turned on the water and then stuck his head under the basin as he’d done the last time. The water was cold, and the shock of it against his warm skin was glorious, as was drinking oceans of it as the liquid poured from the faucet. Without removing his head from the sink, Hooper opened the cupboard closest to it and let his fingers fumble around until he’d
extracted two glasses. He pulled his head free and filled them both with water, set the glasses on the counter, and then stripped off the jeans he was wearing. He suppressed a scream as they came off of his right leg, and then he shook them loose onto the floor.

With the pants off, Hooper steeled himself to finally look at his leg. Craning his head back, he could see a small black hole surrounded by blood. Coagulated blood, thick like pudding, was in and around the hole, along with a red stain that went all the way to the bottom of his foot.

Hooper limped back to the long-forgotten bags from Meijer and quickly found what he was looking for. He took the bottle of grain alcohol from the paper bag back to the kitchen, set it on the counter, and opened it.
This is going to be bad, but you have to do it.
Hooper dropped a towel on the floor, stood on it, and poured alcohol down his injured leg.

The raging fire of pain was instantaneous. It was a heat of pure white flame that seared up Hooper’s leg and all through his body, consuming his very thoughts. All that there was room for in his mind was pain, but he managed to replace the bottle on the counter and then pour a glass of water over his leg. The pain didn’t disappear, not fully, but it did temper, thanks to the dilution of the alcohol.

He let out a deep breath, then almost laughed at himself: the sound had been nearly orgasmic. He looked back at his leg. It was wetter than before, and most of the coagulate was washed from it, but otherwise it looked the same. Hooper grabbed the other glass of water, then hobbled away from the sink.

He made his way down the basement stairs, using his body to provide friction against the wall, so as not to tear the handrail from the wall. It seemed an eternity since his chase with Amy had reached its conclusion with the two of them tumbling down these steps, but it had been only a few hours earlier.

He came slowly off of the last step and looked at the cause of all of this. She was bound as she’d been when he left her, and he
could tell that she was at least temporarily resigned to her imprisonment. The pole she was attached to had been painted red, and if she’d been trying to escape, there would have been paint shavings on the ground and on her hands.

Amy was either asleep or pretending to be so, and Hooper wanted to wake her so that he could discuss his injury with her, as well as the need to punish her for her attempted escape earlier that morning. He couldn’t fault her for trying to get away, but it was still a behavior that needed to be broken from her, just like one would teach a child not to interrupt, or not to speak with a mouth full of food.

Hooper watched her lying there, beautiful in such a perfect way, and he decided that he’d let her sleep. He left the glass of water next to her, then made his way slowly up the stairs before shutting off the light.

It was still light outdoors, but Hooper ignored the window. He sat down heavily on the sofa, after turning on the TV. He had little use for the thing, especially right after one of his little hunting trips, but this was different. After all, Amy was
here.
He let his mind focus on the screen, and found a news station. There were boring stories about Iraq—who could possibly care?—and then, finally,
his
story. He beamed at the screen. They had found the body he’d left at the drive-in. Everything was coming together perfectly, except for getting shot.
They’ll figure out time of death soon enough, and then they’ll decide whoever claims to have shot me is full of shit.
It had been hard work, stealing a girl Amy’s size, killing her, smashing her teeth with a hammer, then burning her and leaving her in a shallow grave, but all the effort had been worth it.

29

When Luke’s mom finally came home, it was dark out and she was wasted. Luke had to help carry her to the couch. She fell asleep almost instantly, rolling over and then snoring. Ashley and Alisha had just watched him help her, moving off the couch only when it became obvious that was where Luke meant to put her. There was something depressing about having a mom who was too much of a wreck to even punish him, and Luke left her there to walk back to his room.

When Van Endel had come back to the room to tell him he was leaving with the Benchleys, Luke had been confused. Van Endel and that doctor lady had never even come back to talk to him. By the time he saw Mrs. Benchley and how furious she was, Luke had figured out most of it, all but the part about their finding Molly.
That’s where they were wrong, though. The body they found couldn’t have been Molly.
Mrs. Benchley had said that Molly had been dead for days, but that wasn’t true, they had all seen her, and not one of them had questioned whether or not it was her. Why would they lie about something so terrible? A kidnapped kid, even a kidnapped teenager, was no laughing matter, and for Tim’s and Scott’s parents to think their kids
capable of such a thing was almost as terrible as his own mother’s condition.

Reviewing everything in his head, Luke figured it was likely that both Tim and Scott were going to be grounded for lengthy periods of time. Which left a whole separate issue: Molly. Mrs. Benchley had said that the body they found had been burned days earlier. How long would it take to check her fingerprints, or her teeth, if she was too badly burned, and realize they had the wrong girl?
Too long.
And really, any amount of time was too long. They knew three things. Molly wasn’t dead, or at least she hadn’t been this morning; the person who took her likely lived in the same area as they did, probably in Tim and Scott’s neighborhood; and, most importantly, he had a gunshot wound in his right leg.

School was going to be a mess. They were headed for seventh grade and were likely to be branded as liars, a tag that would stick through the end of high school. After all, who would forget something like this? It was clear what needed to happen. They needed to find out where she’d been taken and see if she was still there. And either way, at that point, get the cops involved again, to save Molly, along with their reputations.

But how am I going to be able to do that on my own?

That was a tougher problem, tougher by a lot. It would be hard enough to find Molly and the man who took her with all three of them out and free, but with his friends on what he could only assume was lockdown, it seemed like it was going to be up to him.

The thought made Luke slump on his bed. He was just a regular kid, not some twelve-year-old genius detective.
This would be hard with all three of us, really hard, but I know I’m not smart enough to do it on my own.
Luke didn’t even know where to start an investigation like that. Molly had just disappeared into the trees, and if the wounded man had left any sort of blood trail, the cops hadn’t been able to find it.
Why did it have to rain?

Then an idea began to form in his head. Not a brilliant one, but a small one, that could perhaps be added to with a little bit of
luck. Luke figured they were due for some good luck—all three of them were, but especially him. He packed a bag with clothes, a small amount of food, and three Sprite caps. He left a note on the counter saying he would be back in a day or two, tops, and then waved at his zombified sisters as he left. They didn’t even blink.

Scott had never felt so shell-shocked in his life. He had been ready to try to explain away some part of the story that got muddled because of Luke’s shooting that guy, and maybe to get called out on it, but this was much worse than anything he could have anticipated. Carl had said that he was never going to be able to hang out with Luke or Tim ever again, and his mom had agreed with him—that was the ultimate betrayal. It would have been one thing for Carl to say something like that, and to then have his mom tell him that he was out of bounds, but she went right along with it. Why should Carl get to decide who he was friends with?
It’s not like he’s my real dad. Just because he married my mom doesn’t give him the right to ruin my life.
It was all just so unfair, and no one was even willing to listen to them.

Scott couldn’t even feel good about having seen Molly. The police and her parents thought she was dead, and soon she would be, if she wasn’t already, he was sure of it. They had been given a chance to save her, and it had been taken away by adults who didn’t listen when they needed to the most.