Blue Stew (Second Edition) (31 page)

Yes, the evidence linking the two was faint and largely based on instincts, but most of the trails Braylen followed—with proven success—were faint and pieced together with big helpings of instincts. And if there was
any
chance Marshall knew where that child murdering psychopath was, no excuse in Braylen’s mind would allow him to remain complacent.

Unfortunately, unlike tracking, following this type of trail isn’t as easy as keeping your eyes open while putting one foot in front of the other. Braylen knew he didn’t have any substantive evidence to bring to the police in order to enlist their help—not yet—but that wasn’t a huge hindrance. He often preferred working alone, because it allowed him to do things his own way.

Throughout his adult life, Braylen had been applauded for his “boldness” and “fearlessness” many times by those who knew him well. With a sincere shrug, he would explain that he just hated wasting time.

The plan of attack Braylen had come up with was this: find where Marshall lived, knock on his door, and claim that he too was working with Timothy Glass. The plan was characteristically bold and alarmingly direct, and Braylen felt sure that, within seconds of making this audacious introduction, he would be able to discern whether or not Marshall had been in contact with Timothy. Even if Marshall’s reaction was nothing but speechless awe, Braylen thought he stood a good chance of perceiving his answer.

Having just gone over the lopsided portions of logic and instincts that had brought him to this point, Braylen now felt okay with what he had to do.

He was not a machine, to be clear. Nerves were already doing very unpleasant things to the light breakfast in his stomach. But again, now that he was confident that his process of thought was sound enough, nothing would have him pass up the chance to follow a trail—however faint—that might lead to the capture of a child murdering lunatic.

One last time, Braylen glanced over Marshall’s work schedule (given away without interest or hesitation by his employers) at a local supermarket. He worked nights in a shipping and receiving warehouse. Braylen would find Marshall at home most likely, possibly asleep. That suited him fine—if Marshall’s wits were dulled by fatigue, he would be even less able to deceive him with a false reaction.

Braylen folded the scrap of paper with Marshall’s address into his pocket, stood up, and made for the door.

It was a twenty minute drive. Braylen learned something along the way: When it comes to doing something so thorny, twenty minutes is plenty of time for one’s initial resolution to lose momentum as it stumbles through the defense mechanism known as second-guessing.

How would he play it if, in a best case scenario, Marshall bluntly acknowledged that, yes, he’d been working with Timothy, and invited him inside? Braylen doubted that, even if it were true, Marshall would be so forthcoming with an unknown, unannounced guest. But if he
was
—well, then he would have to improvise as Marshall’s demeanor dictated. Then maybe the next time Braylen came to visit, he’d be wearing a wire with an unmarked police surveillance truck parked outside.

On the distant other hand, what if Marshall—genuinely aghast at Braylen’s implication—slammed the door into his nose and called the police? This seemed more realistic than the prior scenario, and while he’d certainly have some fast explaining to do when the cops turned up, he felt confident that, after putting in a call to Officer Tom Corey and rationalizing what he’d done and why he’d done it, his friend would be able to bail him out.

Almost immediately it got to the point where so many variations of these scenarios were flinging through Braylen’s head that any extra preparedness he might’ve gained through the process was lost. His mind was getting tipsy and jumbled, and he was starting to feel nauseous.

It came as a huge relief when he thought to turn the car’s radio on. The music, even at a moderate volume, gave him something to latch his overactive mind onto.

As his thoughts untangled, Braylen was able to reestablish his mental grip on the core of the plan: make his outlandish introduction, and then refuse to blink as Marshall’s initial reaction gives him away. One way or another.

Marshall McDowell lived in one of a series of four grey, squat two-story apartment buildings. A sign by the road advertised them all as “very affordable.”

Braylen pulled his green Subaru to a stop in front of the first building. His palms were clammy and his insides were stirring.

A row of metal mail slots next to the front entrance were marked with the numbers one through six. Braylen looked down at his notes, now stained with sweaty handprints. Marshall lived in apartment four.

Something happen then that Braylen hadn’t anticipated, even during his episode of unchecked second-guessing. He looked up from his notes just in time to see a man stroll past the front of his car, a gaunt man with a jerky stride—a man with a face Braylen had become exceedingly familiar with thanks to all of his VHS recordings.

Braylen froze and his intestines seemed to twist.

Marshall continued past and opened the door to a small black car just two spots over from his own. Braylen still failed to act. In his head, he’d envisioned having a minute or more to gear up before carrying through with the plan . . .

This hesitation was all it took to spoil his scheme.

By the time he’d regained himself enough to bring a hand to his buckle release, Marshall’s car revved and began to reverse. Braylen thought of jumping out and flagging Marshall down, but he realized that that would introduce too many variables into an already flaky plan. Maybe Marshall would peel away before he could get a definitive read on his reaction?  Maybe it would be too shaded inside the car, or Marshall wouldn’t roll his window down far enough, and Braylen wouldn’t have a clear, full view of Marshall’s face in order to see the truth momentarily warp his features?

This was no good. He needed to confront Marshall in a controlled environment.

At any rate, Marshall had already swung his car around and would be on the main road before Braylen could have gotten his attention anyway.

Should he just wait here for Marshall to return?

The answer came forcefully from within: No.

Never one to ignore such a clear gut instinct, Braylen put his car in reverse. He cursed under his breath as he eased on the gas.

While swinging his own car around, he saw Marshall pulling out onto the main road.

From having gone over Marshall’s work schedule thoroughly before departing, Braylen knew that Marshall going out at this hour in the afternoon was similar to a nine-to-fiver going out at 3AM.

Where was he going?

Despite his instincts insisting that he not let the man out of his sights, Braylen knew that the logical answer was that Marshall was out running innocent errands, nothing more. Maybe Braylen would get another chance—perhaps in an open, sunny parking lot—to meet Marshall face-to-face? Or, he could be on his way to visit a friend—if he
had
any friends. Which seemed like a big
if
, presuming Braylen’s sense of Marshall’s personality was at all accurate.

He accelerated his car out onto the main road, locating Marshall’s small black one not far ahead.

For a brief instant Braylen considered that Marshall could be on his way to meet with Timothy, but he dismissed the notion as too coincidental and improbable.

The thing to do, he figured, was to just hang back and see if an opportunity arose. He didn’t love introducing yet
another
element of uncertainty into his plan, but if he really was prepared to go through with this, then he couldn’t be deterred by what was, in all likelihood, an inconsequential delay.

Braylen, however, had trouble keeping from becoming a little curious as Marshall motored past the variety of convenience stores, auto shops, electronic stores, liquor stores, and fast food joints littering the center of town. His trouble in this regard did not abate as Marshall, over the next fifteen minutes, took turns onto roads that would only bring him farther into rural Vermont.

When the Entering Sutherland sign sprung into view, Braylen could no longer stifle crazed thoughts of Marshall leading him directly to Timothy that afternoon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to ensure that it had good charge—he wanted to be able to call the police at a moment’s notice.

The first two turns Marshall took were right, if he was heading towards Timothy’s. But the third was wrong—or
was
it? Would Timothy really be so bold as to meet Marshall on his own property, while the whole country was looking for him? Or, for that matter, in his own hometown? That wouldn’t be bold—that would be
idiotic
.

The excitement in Braylen was expelled like the air out of a punctured balloon. Once again he was forced to accept the fact that Marshall meeting with Timothy, at that point in time, was just too outlandish to be true.

The question returned: where
was
Marshall going? Leaving thoughts of Timothy behind for now, Braylen’s attention returned to the springtime landscape passing by. He didn’t drive into Sutherland often, but thanks to the Night of Horrors he had become familiar with a few main roads. It took just a second for him to recognize where he was.

They were going down a long straight hill. At the bottom of the hill there was a bridge over a river. The same bridge from which Walter had seen Marshall floating off into the night.

Was he returning to the spot for sentimental reasons?

Evidently not. Marshall passed over the bridge as heedlessly as he had every other possible destination.

Braylen, now heading up the other side of the hill—maintaining what he hoped to be an inconspicuous distance from Marshall—didn’t recognize Nigel’s house as it slipped by on the right. Nor did he know it was Doris Hane’s (or Walter and Maddies’s, currently) driveway that, moments later, snaked up the hill on his left.

When he reached the ridge at the top of the hill, however, it struck Braylen where they must be going: Kall’s Tractor Supply. He knew construction workers and laborers who swore by the place, claiming to buy all their work gloves, boots, and jackets from there. Marshall worked nights in a cold warehouse—surely he would have need for high-quality work gear.

This belief that he finally knew where they were going didn’t bring any relief to Braylen. It meant that they would be stopping soon, and then he would have to make a rushed choice as to whether or not that was the place to confront Marshall.

Except, on an open straightaway before Kall’s had even come into view, the brake lights on Marshall’s car lit up. The nose of his car diverted left, leading down a small gravel road that Braylen hadn’t previously noticed.

According to a small signpost, Brown Hill Road was its name.

Braylen pulled to a stop on the right-hand side of the road. Until now he had been trailing Marshall on fairly main roads, and with any luck he had remained clear of Marshall’s radar. Brown Hill Road, however, was a small gravel road. He needed to give Marshall a head start and allow him a much wider berth, or risk raising the man’s alarm.

Braylen deliberately counted to twenty before turning the wheel and pressing the gas. As he eased up to the road’s gentle downhill slope, the immediate area’s thinner overgrowth allowed him a clear view of the black car a safe distance ahead, before it was lost in the thickening overgrowth near the base of the hill. Braylen allowed his car to accelerate with the descent of the road.

He didn’t see Marshall right away when he reached the bottom of the hill, where the trees had reclaimed the sides of the road. Braylen used his gas pedal liberally to maintain the speed he’d gained coasting downhill, and after slipping around a few curves in the road, he caught sight of Marshall again, closer now. He eased off the gas just a little.

About a mile on, after the road had begun to angle gently uphill again, the trees on Braylen’s right vanished, overtaken by one of Sutherlands many farmlands.

He must know someone who lives out here, Braylen thought, frowning. He wasn’t even sure if this was a through road, and it
had
to be strictly residential.