CAME A SHADOW (The Shadow Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
Brooker swaggered up to the car, placed his huge hands on the roof above the door, and bent his intimidating frame to look in through the driver’s side window. "What the fuck, man?” he said in a voice that made Darth Vader sound like a sissy. “You got nothin' better to do than this?"
"Why don’t you give me a few honest answers to some simple questions, Brooker. You give me that and I'm out of your face for good."
"More questions. Shit. How many times do I have to say it. I dunno nothing about that kid’s disappearance."
"Yeah sure. But answer this for me. How did you get to town the day of the Crandall girl's disappearance, to do all that window shopping you said kept you so busy?"
"My pickup."
Jack nodded in the direction of the rusting hulk sitting beside Brooker's shack. "That pickup there?"
"That's right."
"What would you say if I told you we have a witness that swears your pickup was parked right where it is now on two separate occasions when you tell us you were in town that day?"
Brooker moved the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other with infuriating casualness. "I'd say you're full a shit.”
Jack held his gaze. “Well, Brooker, it sure looks like one of us is, doesn’t it?”
Brooker sneered and shook his head. “ I’ve told you I had nothing to do with that kid's disappearance. And there is no way you can prove different. Now ... leave… me… the fuck… alone. Or else." With that he struck the car roof with the palm of his hand, leaving a nasty little dent. Then he turned and retraced his steps to the shack.
"It’s not smart to threaten a federal agent, Brooker," Jack called after him.
Without turning, Brooker raised his hand, index finger extended, and kept walking.
“Arrogant prick,” Jack mumbled.
CHAPTER 12
On January 24th retired Police Chief Miles Wilson sat in his favorite chair, watching the sunlight sparkle on a vista of freshly fallen snow beyond his front room window. Although undeniably a glorious spectacle of nature it was not what occupied his thoughts.
His wife, Betty, padded into the front room from the kitchen and placed a sandwich on the table by his chair. Normally the appearance of food would be more than sufficient to capture Miles’ attention but, as it happened, he remained quietly preoccupied.
"What's bothering you, dear?" Betty asked.
Miles looked up, as always struck by her ability to pick up on his frame of mind. "You'd think now that I'm retired I could put the job behind me, wouldn't you?"
"I live in eternal hope," she sighed. "But I know better." She settled into her own chair, opposite his, adjusting her ample figure into a comfortable position. "Talk to me, old man."
Miles had always felt comfortable confiding in Betty about the various aspects of his job as Police Chief - she was just too good a listener not to take advantage of - but most of the time when he talked shop it had been in a non-specific way. He now felt the need to unburden himself of the details.
"Ever since the Crandall girl went missin' and that business with Henry Jarvis happened, I been bothered," he said. "The similarities between that case and one I handled back in '55 are just plain ... well, eerie is the only word that comes to mind."
"Surely you don’t think there's a connection?"
"Can't be but, damn it, it's drivin' me crazy just the same."
"So, tell me about it."
Miles took a bite of his toasted tuna-fish sandwich and munched on it absently while an array of toast crumbs arranged themselves on his shirtfront. "The reason it sticks out in my memory so well is because it happened not long after I took over as the chief - the first thing of any consequence I'd had to deal with."
"The Fletcher girl, you mean?"
"Yup, sure was. I'm surprised ya remember it."
"I remember she disappeared but the details are a bit sketchy."
"Wally Fletcher was the lawyer, married to Heidi. Their little girl was Libby---"
"Yes, of course."
"She was five, just about the same age as the Crandall girl, and looked just like her, too, as a matter a fact. They had a real nice place in town. The little girl was outside in the yard, playin' in the snow. Well, Heidi was busy with household chores, took her eyes off the child fer a few minutes and, just like that, she was gone. We turned the whole county inside out but never found a trace of her."
Betty had a puzzled look on her face. "I seem to recall you found the man responsible for that."
"Yeah, but you know … that always bothered me. It was an old vagrant some neighbors had reported seein' in the area at the time. I'd come across him a week earlier and kinda took pity on him, gave him a meal and an overnight stay in the jail to warm him up. I remember he was a likeable old fella - didn't appear ta me he'd hurt a dust mite. But folks got all stirred up an' insisted I bring him in fer questionin'. "So I headed out to where he was camped - out behind the old train station - an' damned if I don't find him dead. Looked like suicide. There was a scarf, later identified as belongin' to the girl, found among his things. I don't mind tellin' ya, it shocked the hell outa me."
"But it was an open and shut case, wasn't it?"
Miles ran his fingers through his snow-white and thinning hair, thinking back. "Yeah, I guess it was … or seemed to be anyway. But I never could quite believe that old man could do somethin' like that."
"And now?"
"I know it sounds crazy but, well, just hear me out. Both girls were about the same age, almost identical - blond hair, blue eyes. Both disappeared just before Christmas and were snatched from their own yards. Both were never found. In both cases the prime suspect was found dead before he could be brought to trial. And in both cases the evidence linkin’ the suspect to the crime was a piece a clothin’."
"When you put it like that," Betty said frowning, "it does sound like a bit too much of a coincidence."
"That what's botherin' me. Plus the fact that that old hobo didn't seem like no child killer and, to be perfectly honest, neither did Henry Jarvis."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I dunno. Part of me wants ta call Callie and run this by her but she'll probably figure I'm just an old fool, full a balloon juice, if I do."
"Oh, Miles, she'd think no such thing. You can see it in that girl's eyes - she thinks the world of you."
"Yeah, well maybe that's why I ain't too keen on makin' myself look real good an' stupid in 'er eyes."
"Why don't you talk to that FBI fellow then?"
"You figure it's okay if I look real good an' stupid to him, huh?"
"Oh, Miles!"
Miles took another bite of his sandwich and munched on it for awhile. "Aw, what the hell,” he said, “I'm gonna give it a try." He struggled to his feet, trudged out to the wall phone in the kitchen, and dialed the number to the police station. The receptionist, Megan, answered. “Hi, Megan. You seen that FBI fella, Parmenter, around lately?”
"Sure have, Miles. He just walked in. You wanna talk to ‘im?”
“Yeah, please.”
“Hold tight, I’ll put him on."
A moment later Miles heard a click and then, "Parmenter here."
"Agent Parmenter, this here is Miles Wilson. I hope ya don't think I'm stickin' my nose where it don't belong but, if ya've got a few minutes, I'd appreciate it if we could get together. I'd like ta discuss a matter that may or may not have some bearin' on the Crandall case."
"I'd be happy to meet with you Miles. Just say where."
"If you don't mind a short drive, why don't we make it my place?"
Jack turned off the main highway just past the town limits and followed a gently winding, pleasantly treed back road to a small home set back from a creek and surrounded by a white rail fence. Miles had the door open, waiting for him, as Jack walked up the snowy path from his car.
"Agent Parmenter …"
Jack held up his hand. "Please, make it Jack."
"Jack it is. Callie's tol
d me some real nice things about you. Thinks an awful lot a ya."
They shook hands. "I could have truthfully said exactly the same thing, Miles," Jack said.
"She's a great gal.”
Jack nodded and smiled. "You'll get no argument from me there."
Miles stepped aside, motioning Jack inside, then pointed him toward a comfortable looking chair. "Please, make yerself at home. Can I get ya a coffee? The wife's out doin' her weekly shoppin' but she left a fresh pot brewin'."
"Sounds good. Thank you."
Miles disappeared and returned a moment later with a tray containing two giant-sized mugs of coffee together with cream and sugar containers.
Jack took a moment to perform his ritual with the coffee before settling back in his chair. "So, my friend, what's on your mind?"
Miles looked a little sheepish. "I don't mind sayin' I feel a bit foolish here. I'm sure I'm just wastin' yer time."
Jack pressed his lips together. "Well, I can see something's weighing pretty heavily on you, so why not get it off your chest and let me decide if you've wasted my time?"
Miles leaned back in his rocking chair, hooked his thumbs in his suspender straps, and noisily sucked his teeth. "Well, I've brought ya out here so I might as well, I suppose." He took a deep, hesitant breath. "It's just that ever since that poor little Crandall girl disappeared, somethin's been workin' on my mind …”
CHAPTER 13
The first week of February, Brad got a call from Carl in New York. "Any progress?" he asked.
"Nothing," Brad said. "It's like she disappeared off the face of the earth. The cops don't seem to be getting anywhere."
"I’m sorry to hear that, buddy.”
“Yeah. How are things going at the office? ”
“It’s pretty hectic. We’re doing our best to stay on top of things."
"I know I’m letting you down, Carl. I'm trying to prepare Sam for the return home. It's just … it's like, if we leave here we're admitting Sophie's gone for good."
“Hey, you’ve got enough on your mind without worrying about work. I can hold down the fort a while longer."
“Actually, it's time we faced reality. Sophie's not coming back and we’re going to have to deal with it.”
Carl sighed audibly. “How is Sam doing?”
“Not good but … the facts are what they are. I’m going to talk to her about going home and I'll try to be back in the office by Monday morning.”
“Okay, Brad, if that’s what you think is best. I’ll talk to you then."
Brad hung up the phone and turned to see Samantha standing in the doorway watching him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a determined set to her jaw.
"I'm not leaving here," she said. “You can do whatever you want, but I’m staying here until … until …” Her voiced cracked and she turned and ran from the room.
"Sam, wait a minute,” Brad called. He followed her down the hall, into the living room, where she stood, arms folded, facing out the window. "Please, let’s talk. We have to make some plans. We can't go on like this, babe."
She kept her back to him and said nothing.
"Please, honey."
To his astonishment she suddenly acquiesced. In a feeble voice he could barely hear, she said, "Fine, we'll go home then."
Brad reached out to her but she twisted away from his touch, rubbing her arm like something vile and revolting had offered her solace.
****
Just when Samantha thought she had finally gotten control of the emotional roller coaster she was riding, a fresh wave of despair welled up within her and she found herself sobbing, her entire body suddenly overcome by violent convulsions. The psychological impact of packing up Sophie's things was crippling. Every piece of clothing, every toy, brought a special memory to mind.
From the bedroom doorway Bert watched her as she sat on the floor beside Sophie's bed, sobbing. He wanted to comfort her, but felt utterly powerless to do so. When he had gone through the trauma of losing his wife a year earlier he’d been able to take some comfort from the fact that he had been there for her through her suffering. As bad as it had been, there had been ample opportunity to show her how much he loved her. To share her pain. None of that existed here. Samantha wanted no part of him or his son.
It tore him apart to witness the cruel destruction of what had once been such a happy family.
****
Samantha watched through tear-filled eyes as the countryside on the way to the airport rolled past. She was thinking about an article she had read years before about women knowing instinctively when their missing children are alive. Motherless at the time, she’d been skeptical about the existence of any kind of sixth sense. But after giving birth to Sophie she had changed her mind and had come to believe there was validity to the claim. The fact that she held none of these consoling feelings herself only added to the immense guilt she already felt. If Sophie were alive, Samantha knew with certainty she would feel it in her heart. And although she wanted nothing more in the world than to believe her daughter would one day be reunited with her, she had no faith that it was in fact going to happen.
As Bert pulled in to the airport parking lot Brad said, “You’ll keep in touch with Callie, let us know if there are any developments?"
"I will, son."
They parked the pickup and unloaded their luggage. Brad looked up, noting the ominously dark, low-lying clouds that pervaded the sky. “The weather doesn’t look good,“ he said.
Not surprisingly they were told at the check-in counter that their departure would be delayed.
“Let’s get some coffee,” Bert suggested. “The weather doesn’t usually stay socked in for too long.”
“You don’t have to stay, Dad. Why don’t you head on home?”
“I wouldn’t think of it. I’m sure it won’t be much of a wait anyway.”
Bert’s assessment of the weather proved optimistic. It was three hours before the clouds lifted and a new departure time was announced.
In the departure lounge, Bert held Samantha in a long embrace. "I'm not going to give up looking for her," he whispered. "Never."
Samantha did not utter a response but nodded her head against his chest.
When she made no move to leave, Brad said, “Come on, Sam. We have to go now.” Slowly, she stood back from Bert and looked up at him with dead eyes. Finally she turned and, without a word, followed Brad to the boarding gate.
****
At Sarah's grave, a gale-force wind coming out of the Canadian north went barely noticed. “I miss you terribly, honey,” Bert muttered, “but I thank God you’ve been spared from suffering through this tragedy. At times I feel like I just want to lay down here beside you and let the pain overtake me, put an end to this hell my life has become.”
The one-sided conversations with Sarah were usually therapeutic for Bert. He had made a habit of visiting her gravesite to talk to her about whatever might be on his mind - whether good or bad. His mood when he left was almost always better than when he arrived. But this time was different. Sadness and anger had taken a devastating hold on him and he wasn’t at all sure he would ever be able to shake it off.
It was in this troubled frame of mind that he returned to the farm to find Jack Parmenter sitting in his idling vehicle, waiting for him. Bert pulled to a stop in front of the house as Jack approached him.
I've taken all the crap I can take from this son-of-a-bitch, Bert decided. He threw open his door and stepped out of the truck, ready for a heated confrontation. "If you're here to ask me more stupid goddamn questions---"
Jack held his hands palms out as if stopping traffic. "Please, Mr. Crandall, I know I've been a thorn in your side," he said. "I’m not here to upset you further, sir. Actually, I'm here to ask for your help."
Bert looked the FBI man in the eye and quickly decided he was sincere. "All right. If there's a chance it'll help find my granddaughter you're welcome to come in."
"I'll be honest, sir,” Jack
said, “it's a long shot. But the truth is I'm about out of ideas on this case."
Bert used his key to gain entry to the side door of the house where Winston waited, tail wagging with enough force to knock over a bus. Bert spent a moment scratching the dog behind his ears and under his chin, telling him what a good dog he was, and then let him out to answer nature’s call.
"If you’ll look after getting a fire going in the living room there,“ Bert said pointing, “I'll put on a pot of coffee."
Jack took off his parka and hung it on a peg in the mudroom, then pulled off his boots. "You're on," he responded.
A few minutes later they were settled in front of a welcome fire with large earthenware mugs of strong coffee in hand.
Bert came right to it. "Well, Agent Parmenter, you said you wanted to ask for my help. What is it you think I can do for you?"
Jack shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. "Like I said, Mr. Crandall, it's a long shot but here it is. A while back I had a chat with Miles Wilson. I didn't put much stock in what he said at first but lately, I must admit, it’s got me thinking. It might be crazy but---"
"I've known Miles for a good number of years," Bert cut in, "and I've never yet heard him say anything crazy. What's this all about?"
"Well, sir, I'm hoping you may remember back to 1955 when a local couple named Fletcher - Heidi and Walter I believe their names were - had their daughter abducted under circumstances that were curiously similar to Sophie's."
Bert nodded. "I knew Wally Fletcher very well. He was a lawyer - did pretty much all the legal work for folks around here back then. Geez, I haven't thought about him in years. They moved away shortly after that happened as I recall. The little girl's name was uh.… Lotty or something like that."
"It was Elizabeth - she went by Libby," Jack said.
"Libby, sure, that's right. But what in the world could that have to do with our case?"