A Dark Path #6
O’Neil is holding a beer bottle in his left hand, a smoldering cigarette in his right. Both are annoying me, so I say, “Would you mind setting that beer down and putting out that cigarette?”
He cocks his head, thinking about arguing, but wisely opts not to. “Whatever you say.” Bending, he sets the bottle on the grill behind him, flicks the cigarette into the weeds off the deck.
“Are you alone tonight, Mr. O’Neil?” I ask.
“Just like last night and the night before that. That okay with you?”
“Would you mind telling us where you were today?”
His brows furrow, as if he has to think about it. “I was here.”
I pull out my notebook and jot down something meaningless, watching his hands, the windows. “Is there anyone who can substantiate that?”
“Nope. Just me and my lonesome.”
“Did you leave the house at any time today?”
“Went down to the farm store for a case of oil.”
“What time was that?”
“Noon or so.”
“You got a receipt?”
“Probably.”
He turns to close the door behind him. I catch a whiff of dirty hair and bad breath, and take another step back, a combination of caution and distaste. Tomasetti holds his ground.
“What’s this all about, anyway?” He glances at the bottle of beer on the grill, but makes no move to retrieve it.
“Have you seen or been around any kids lately?” I ask.
His eyes go flat. “You here to hassle me or what?”
Tomasetti gives him a hard look. “Just answer the question.”
“Two boys went missing this afternoon,” I tell him.
O’Neil looks away. “I ain’t seen no one.”
“Do you mind if we take a quick look inside?” I ask.
“You got a warrant?”
I pat my cell phone. “Your parole officer doesn’t need one.” I don’t know the terms of his parole, but it’s an effective bluff, because he turns to the door, opens it. I glance at Tomasetti, who looks back at me and shrugs.
O’Neil goes through the door. I follow, Tomasetti right behind me.
The living room is a cramped space that smells of cigarette smoke and dirty clothes.
A window-unit air conditioner sits in the window.
A lamp with a crooked shade throws dim light onto a ragtag sofa and recliner.
A decent-size TV tuned to a football game sits atop what looks like a garage-sale night table.
To my right, a cluttered kitchen sports faux-wood cabinets. Formica counters. A harvest-gold sink full of dishes that have been washed and left to dry.
I catch Tomasetti’s eye, motion toward the bedrooms in the back. I stroll into the kitchen, aware that O’Neil is following me. “Where are you working these days, Mr. O’Neil?” I ask, hoping to keep him occupied while Tomasetti snoops.
“I’m still down at the grain co-op.”
“You’ve been there a while, haven’t you?”
“Eight months now.”
I touch a stack of magazines and a single folded newspaper on the bar. Popular Science. Playboy. Last Sunday’s edition of The Advocate. “You’re a reader.”
“Last I checked that wasn’t against the law.”
I look at him, aware that Tomasetti has disappeared down the hall that leads into the bedrooms. O’Neil is looking at the magazines, nervous because he can’t remember what’s in the stack and he thinks I’m going to bust him for contraband.
He doesn’t like me poking around, asking questions.
Because he’s a parolee? Or does he have something to hide?
“You’ve been keeping your nose clean,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nothing of interest in the kitchen. No sign that a child has been here.
“You have any firearms in the house, sir?”
“I’m a felon, lady. I ain’t that stupid.”
I tug open a couple of drawers, find nothing of interest.
“So which kid is missing?” he asks.
“Two boys,” I tell him, keeping it vague.
O’Neil glances left, startles when he realizes we’re alone. “Where’s your buddy?”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Snarling something beneath his breath, the man stalks toward the hall. “Hey!”
“Mr. O’Neil.” I say his name firmly and start after him, hoping he doesn’t do something ill-advised. “Calm down. Stop.”
The man doesn’t break stride. I follow him through the living room, down the hall. He smashes his hand against a wall switch. Light rains down. The man sees Tomasetti in his bedroom, and I hear his teeth grind.
“The fuck you doing in my bedroom, man?”
Tomasetti stares back at him, his expression calm, a take-your-best-shot glint in his eyes. “You gave us permission to look around, remember?”
“Well, you seen enough.” O’Neil crosses the space between them in two strides, too fast, going for Tomasetti. “Sneaking around my place like I’m some kind of criminal, looking at all my shit.”
Tomasetti holds his ground. “Put your hands on me and you’re going to jail.”
For an instant, I think O’Neil is going to make good on all that hate in his eyes. But he stops, hands clenched, mouth working. Struggling with some dark urge he can’t quite get a handle on. Prison taught him the value of self-control, I think.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. O’Neil,” I tell him.
The words seem to snap him out of whatever dark fugue he’d fallen into.
Tomasetti brushes past him and we start toward the door. I step onto the deck, take a deep breath of clean air. Tomasetti stops and turns to the other man. “Word of advice: Lose the swing set. Doesn’t look good with you being a convicted sex offender.”
O’Neil makes a sound that could be a snarl or a laugh, divides his attention between the two of us. “Hit the road, motherfuckers.”
Tomasetti and I don’t speak until we’re in the Explorer and I make the turn onto the road. “Not exactly a citizen of the year candidate,” he says.
I glance his way. “I’m glad you were there.”
“Always happy to do my part when it comes to ruining a pervert’s day, Chief.”
Kevin ran as fast as his legs would take him. Cold air burned his throat, set his lungs on fire. Snow and sleet stung his face like icy needles. Twice he lost sight of Aaron and the yellow beam of his flashlight. Twice, he panicked, poured on the speed, and caught up.
“Wait!” he cried as they barreled down a steep ravine. “Hold up!”
Aaron stopped. “Hurry!” he hissed. “If old man Henderson has an ATV, he’ll catch us.”
“No way is he getting an ATV through these woods.” Using his hands, Kevin scrambled up the other side of the ravine and looked around. “Where are we going anyway?”
Turning, Aaron started through the trees without answering.
Putting his head down to protect his eyes from the snow and sleet, Kevin followed.
There was no trail. Just thick trees and heavy brush all around.
All he could see through the snow slashing down was the glow of the flashlight and the silhouette of his friend’s back.
Kevin had always believed his friend had a superhuman sense of direction.
More than once Aaron had gotten them home when they’d wandered too far.
This time, though, he wondered if maybe they really were lost.
“Hey! Lookit!”
Aaron stopped. Kevin looked up to see that they’d come upon a narrow dirt road banked on both sides by massive trees and covered with snow. A beat-up mailbox leaned at a precarious angle next to what looked like a lane.
“Maybe they got a phone,” Kevin offered.
Nodding, Aaron looked around. He’d lost his flat-brimmed hat at some point. Snow covered his hair and the shoulders of his coat. His friend looked cold and … worried. “I think we went the wrong way when we left old man Henderson’s place.”
“So we’re lost?” Kevin said.
“Maybe.” He shone his flashlight toward the lane. “Hard to see with all the snow.”
Trying not to be scared, remembering that just a couple of hours ago they’d become blood brothers, Kevin went to him, held up his fist for a bump. “It happens, dude. Don’t worry about it.”
Understanding he’d been forgiven for getting them lost, Aaron fist-bumped him back.
Side by side, they started down the lane.
Kevin didn’t want to admit it, but he was glad they’d stumbled upon someone to help them.
He wanted to call his mom. She would come get them and drop Aaron at his house.
No one had to know they’d planned to run away.
Hopefully, his parents had been so worried, they’d forget all about grounding him.
“Uh-oh.”
Kevin looked up at the sound of his friend’s voice. He’d been so immersed in his fantasy homecoming he didn’t realize they’d reached the house. His heart sank at the sight of it. “Dude, that’s right out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
The flashlight beam revealed a lopsided porch with a hit-or-miss rail, crumbling steps, and boarded-up windows and a door.
Aaron pretended to laugh, but Kevin could tell he was spooked. “At least we’ll be out of the cold.”
The trees fell away as they entered the yard. Kevin stepped over the mangled remnants of a wire fence. Overgrown bushes crowded the front porch. All of it punctuated by darkness and snow and wind so strong he couldn’t hear himself think.
The boys took the steps to the porch. The plank floor creaked as they crossed to the door. “Maybe we ought to knock,” Kevin said.
Rolling his eyes, Aaron tried the knob and tugged. The board nailed across it prevented it from opening. “Looks like everything’s boarded up.”
Wind and snow battered them as they made their way to the rear of the house. They ascended the steps to a small porch. The back door stood open about a foot.
“Looks like we’re in luck.” The door squeaked as Aaron pushed it the rest of the way open. The interior was cold and pitch black. The odors of mildew, dust, and rotting wood wafted out.
“Stinks,” Kevin muttered.
Shining the beam of his flashlight ahead, Aaron ventured deeper into the house. “Come on.”
Marveling at his friend’s bravery, Kevin followed. The flashlight beam lit up a demolished kitchen. Broken cabinet doors. Copper pipes sticking out of the wall. An old sink sitting at a cockeyed angle on the floor. Curling linoleum.