Gone (39 page)

Cool air carried some of the mustard tang our way.

Milo said, “No building permits issued.”

“Folks round these parts don’t truck with no guv-ment.”

Nowhere to conceal the Seville completely. I left it parked off the asphalt, partially hidden by tree boughs, and we walked. Milo’s hand dangled over his jacket.

When we were fifty feet away, the building’s dimensions asserted themselves. Three stories high, a couple hundred feet wide.

He said, “Thing that size but the door’s too small to get a car through. Wait here while I check the back.”

He took out his gun, sidled around the barn’s north side, was gone a few minutes, returned with the weapon reholstered. “Show-and-tell time.”

Double rear doors, ten feet high, were wide enough for a flatbed to drive through. Clean, oiled hinges looked freshly installed. A generator large enough to power a trailer park chugged. Behind us some kind of bird trilled but didn’t show itself. Tire tracks scored the dirt, a frenzy of tread marks, too many to make sense of.

Near the right-hand door a padlock lay on the dirt.

I said, “You found it that way?”

“That’s the official story.”

The barn had no hayloft. Just a three-story cavity, cathedral-sized, vaulted by stout, weathered rafters, walls tacked with white drywall. Dust filters like the one we’d seen in the PlayHouse garage whirred every twenty feet or so. An antique gravity gas pump stood to the right of an immaculate worktable. Shiny tools in a punchboard rack, chamois cloths folded into neat squares, tins of paste wax, chrome polish, saddle soap.

A flagstone spine wide enough for a four-horse march ran up the center of the room. Both sides were lined with what Dr. Walter Maclntyre had conceived as horse stalls.

The doors were gone and the concrete floors were swept clean. Each compartment held a gas-eating steed.

Milo and I walked up the flagstone. He looked into each car, placed his hand on the hoods.

A quartet of Corvettes. Two bathtub Porsches, one with a racing number on its door. Brad Dowd’s newer silver roadster, a black Jaguar D-Type, lurked like a weapon, unmindful of the cream Packard Clipper towering snobbishly in the next stall.

Slot after slot, filled with lacquered, chromed sculpture. Red Ferrari Daytona, the monstrous baby-blue ’59 Caddy Brad had driven to Nora’s house, silver AC Cobra, bronze GTO.

Every hood cold.

Milo straightened from the deep bend it took to inspect a yellow Pantera. Walked to the far wall and surveyed the collection. “A boy and his hobbies.”

“The Daytona costs as much as a house,” I said. “Either he pays himself a huge salary, or he’s been siphoning.”

“Unfortunately, chrome
don’t
bleed, and it’s blood I’m after.”

Outside the barn, he replaced the open lock and wiped it clean. “Gazillion dollars’ worth of go-carts and he doesn’t bother bolting.”

I said, “He doesn’t expect visitors.”

“Confident fellow. No reason not to be.” We began the return trip to the car, walked around the south side.

Ten steps later, we stopped, synchronized as a drill team.

A gray circle. Easy to spot; the grass had died two feet from the perimeter, leaving a halo of cold, brown dirt.

Steel disk, nubbed with little metal pimples. A lever folded flat pulled up easily when Milo tried it. An inch of lift evoked a pneumatic hiss. He let it drop back into place.

I said, “Bert the Turtle.”

“Who?”

“Cartoon character in these booklets they gave out to schoolkids in the fifties, teaching the basics of civil defense. A bit before my time but I had a cousin who held on to hers. Bert was big on ducking into his shell. Knew proper bomb-shelter etiquette.”

“In my school it was drop-drills,” he said. “Put your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye.”

He toed the edge of the shelter lid. “Ol’ Walter really was worried about the communists.”

“And now Brad reaps the benefits.”

M
ilo walked around looking for a surveillance camera.

“None I can see, but who knows…”

Returning to the shelter lid, he squatted, lifted the handle a few more inches. Hiss hiss. He let it fall back into place.

“Air lock,” I said. “Keep nuclear fallout at bay.”

“Play canasta while the bombs drop.” Stretching prone, he pressed his ear to steel. “You hear the cries of a damsel in distress like I do?”

Off in the distance, a puny breeze barely ruffled the meadow. The trilling bird had gone mute. If clouds made noise, the silence might’ve relented.

I said, “Loud and clear. Grounds to search.”

He lifted the handle halfway. Peered in. Had to stand and put his weight into completing the arc. The hatch gave way with a final whisper and he stepped back. Waited. Inched over to the opening. Looked down again.

Snaking through a tube of corrugated steel was a spiral staircase, metal treads stripped with friction pads. Bolts secured the flight to the underside of the rim.

“The big question remains,” he said.

“Is he down there.”

“None of those cars have been driven recently, but that could just mean he’s bunked down for a while.” Removing his desert boots, he unsnapped his holster but left the gun nestled. Sitting at the edge of the opening, he swung his legs in. “Something happens, you can have my Bert the Turtle lunch box.”

He descended. I took off my shoes and followed.

“Stay up there, Alex.”

“And be here alone if he shows up?”

He started to argue. Stopped himself. Not because he’d changed his mind.

Staring at something.

At the bottom of the stairs was a door, same gray steel as the hatch. A shiny brass coat hook was screwed to the metal.

From the hook, a white nylon cord hung taut. Its ends were looped around a pair of ears.

Waxy-white ears.

The head they connected to was lean, well-formed, crowned by thick, dark hair.

Well-formed face, but hideous. Dermis more paperlike than corporeal. Lumps distorted the cheekbones where stuffing had settled. Nearly invisible sutures held the mouth shut and pried the eyes open. Blue eyes, wide with surprise.

Glass.

The thing that had once been Dylan Meserve was as lifelike as a milliner’s mold.

Milo crawled out. His gullet throbbed. He paced.

I got closer to the opening, smelled the formaldehyde. Saw writing on the door, an inch below the thing’s chin.

Shimmied down low enough, I read.

Neat printing, black marker.

PROJECT COMPLETED.

Below that, a date and a time. Two a.m. Four days ago.

Milo walked around for a while, searching for evidence of burial, returned shaking his head, looked into the maw of the bomb shelter. “Lord only knows what else is down there. The moral dilemma is…”

“Is there someone down there who can be saved,” I said. “If there is, will attempting it make matters worse. You could try calling him, if he’s down there, maybe we can hear the ring.”

“If we can hear it, he’s probably heard us already.”

“At least he’s not going anywhere.” I eyed the dangling head. “Talk about probable cause.”

He took out his cell and tried Brad Dowd’s number.

No sound from below.

His eyes widened. “Mr. Dowd? Lieutenant Sturgis… no, nothing huge but I thought maybe we could chat about Reynold Peaty… just tying up loose ends… I was hoping more like tonight, where are you? We stopped by there earlier… yeah, we must’ve… listen, sir, no, no prob coming back to your house, we’re not far. Camarillo… actually it is related, but I’m not at liberty to say… sorry… so can we —
you’re sure? Today would be a lot easier, Mr. Dowd… okay, I understand, sure. Tomorrow it is.”

Click.

He said, “Hard day out in Pasadena, plumbing leaks, blah blah blah. Mr. Cool and Charming until I mentioned Camarillo. Got this little catch in his voice. Happy to cooperate, Lieutenant, but I just can’t today.”

“You shook him up, he needs to regroup. Maybe he’ll revert to what calmed him down when he was a kid.”

“What’s that?”

“Arts and crafts.”

Milo went down in the hole again, pounded the door while keeping his distance from the thing on the coat hook.

Sidled away from it and found a spot on the door where he could press his ear without touching dead flesh. He knocked on the metal door, then pounded.

Climbing back out, he brushed away nonexistent dirt. “If anyone’s in there, I can’t hear it and the door’s bolted solid.”

Lowering the hatch, he wiped it clean, scuffed out the footsteps we’d left in the dirt halo.

We put our shoes on and retraced our steps back to the car, worked hard at obscuring our tracks.

I drove off the property and repeated the climb I’d taken when I’d overshot. When we found nowhere to hide the Seville within walking distance, I turned around and descended.

A mailbox two properties down from Billy Dowd’s land was lettered with gold stick-ons: The Osgoods. A sagging plank-and-chicken-wire fence blocked a gravel drive.

Flag up on the box. Milo got out and checked. “Least a week’s worth, let’s trespass.”

Unlatching the gate, he stood back as I drove through, swung it closed, hopped back in.

The Osgoods owned a much smaller spread than Billy Dowd. Same oak-sycamore combo, a flat brown lawn in place of a meadow. In the center, a pale green fifties ranch house with a white-pebble roof squatted behind an empty corral. No animals, no animal smell. Half a dozen empty trash cans stood against one side. A cheap prefab swing set tilted nearby and a child’s plastic trike blocked the front door.

The sky had started to darken. No light spat from any windows.

Milo reached over the tricycle and knocked on the front door anyway. Left his card wedged between the door and jamb and a note under one of the Seville’s wiper blades.

As we walked back to the road, I said, “What’d you write?”

“‘Oh, lucky citizens,’” he said, “‘you are doing your bit for God and country.’”

We reentered Billy’s property on foot, found a watch spot just shy of where the trees met the meadow.

Thirty feet back from the drive. The ground was spongy with dead leaves and dust. We sat against the stout trunk of a low-branching oak, nicely concealed.

Milo and me, bugs and lizards and unseen scampering things.

Nothing to talk about. Neither of us wanted to talk. The sky was bruised deep blue, then black. I thought of Michaela and Dylan, camping down the road.

Led to the hoax spot by Brad Dowd.

Had he harbored plans of ending the game with a bloody surprise, only to be stymied by Michaela’s escape?

Was that reason to kill her?

Or did she just fit some kind of role?

Same for Dylan. I struggled to remember him from his photos, not the
thing.

Time passed. Squeaks sounded above us, leaves shivered, then a delicate flutter of wings as a bat zipped out of the oak and circled high above the meadow.

Then another. Then four.

“Great,” said Milo. “When does the ominous soundtrack start?”

“Da dum da dum.”

He laughed. I did, too. Why not?

We took turns napping. His second snooze lasted five minutes and when he shook himself awake, he said, “Shoulda brought water.”

“Who knew we’d be camping?”

“A Boy Scout’s always prepared. You scouted, right?”

“Yup.”

“Me, too. If BSA only knew, huh? Think anyone’s down in that hole?”

“Hopefully not someone like Dylan,” I said.

He rested his face in one hand.

A moment later: “If he doesn’t show up tonight, Alex, you know how it’ll have to go.”

“Task force.”

“Can’t wait to write that warrant application. ‘Yes, your honor, taxidermy.’”

Night had settled in so completely it seemed permanent.

Neither of us spoke for the next half hour. When headlights yellowed the asphalt, we were both wide awake.

Fog lights. Engine purr. The vehicle’s squarish bulk passed us fast and sped toward the barn.

We got to our feet, stayed in the tree cover, advanced.

The Range Rover came to a stop just to the left of the barn’s undersized front door, then silenced. A man got out the driver’s side, switched on a bug light above the door.

The bulb had a yellow-green tint and it turned Brad Dowd’s white hair chartreuse.

He went around to the passenger side, opened the door.

Held a hand out to someone.

Female, petite. A blousy jacket over trousers obscured her contours.

The two of them walked to the door and the woman waited as Brad opened it. Moved into the yellow beam. Profile limned.

Firm chin, nubby little nose. Bobbed gray hair tinted olive by the light.

Nora Dowd said something that sounded perky. Brad Dowd turned toward her. Spread his arms wide.

She rushed into the hug.

Nothing sisterly about the gesture as her hands began caressing the back of his neck.

His hands cupped her rear. She giggled.

Her face tilted up as their mouths met.

Long, grinding kiss. She reached down for his groin. He laughed. She laughed.

They went inside.

They were back moments later, walking hand-in-hand around the south side of the barn.

Nora skipping.

Brad said, “Gorgeous night, isn’t this just the best?”

Nora said, “Party time.”

They reached the bomb-shelter hatch. Nora stood by, fluffing her pageboy as Brad worked the lever. Putting weight into it, just as Milo had.

“Ooh,” she said. “My big strong
ma
-yan.”

“Got something
beaucoup
strong for you, babe.”

“Got something soft and sweet for you, babe.”

The lid popped open. Brad pulled out a small penlight and aimed it into the opening. “You were right. I like him there.”