3
ANSON
The farmhouse was far from deserted. It was a living thing sitting in the dark pitch of night.
We’d parked nearly a mile away, hid the car behind the remains of two old grain silos, and walked the distance through the overgrown fields and adjoining woods.
I use the term “walked” loosely. For me, it was more of a hobble as I favored my injured leg.
Paul helped me as best he could while Vincent ran ahead to scout things out.
We found him crouched behind a thicket on a hill, peering through the thorny branches at the house below.
Light burned from every window. The structure glowed against the black, moonless night like some living, breathing thing peeking from the shadows, hungry with moist lips.
Vincent motioned for us to get down and we settled in beside him.
Two vans were parked out front.
Two white vans.
Vans I knew.
“Those are the same people who burned down my house,” I whispered.
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Last time, they said Talbot Enterprises on the side. Looks like they painted over the writing, but otherwise, I’m sure.”
“You know how many white vans there are in the world?” Paul leaned closer. “That could be anybody.”
Father had once told me, “Incorrect assumptions feed the roots of mistakes,” and I suppose he was right about that. There was no reason to believe the vans were the same. They probably weren’t, but they felt the same.
Vincent’s eyes remained fixed on the front of the farmhouse. “I’ve counted six people so far. They’re wearing these white plastic suits. Covered from head to toe.”
“Cleaners,” Paul said softly. “You see them in comics a lot. They might be destroying evidence. Wiping prints. Removing personal items. Sanitizing. Whatever they gotta do to distance themselves from this place. Like I said, they cut and run. The girls and the Kid are long gone.”
Vincent’s fingers played over the edges of the revolver we’d stolen. He’d found a box of ammunition in the glovebox of the detective’s car. “We don’t know that.”
“Any sign of Finicky?” I asked.
Ms. Finicky ran the place. Ms. Finicky’s House for Wayward Children—that’s how she billed it. A temporary foster home for those who couldn’t be placed anywhere else. She’d been the public face while those detectives and who knows who else ran kids through here like cattle.
“I’ve only seen the guys in white. If Finicky’s still here, she’s inside.” Vincent started to stand.
I grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”
“To get my girl back.”
“You just said there’s six of them inside, maybe more. We’ve got one gun with six shots. We gotta be smart about this.” Father would scold me for saying “gotta,” but it slipped out. “We need a plan.”
“You got one? Some better idea?” He glared at me and patted his pocket. “Because I’ve got ten more bullets in here. I’m thinking I’ll take out five of those fuckers and start breaking bones on whoever is left until they tell me where they took the girls. Sometimes simple is best, genius.”
“Guys . . .” Paul said softly.
Vincent’s face grew red. “Shut up. Stay out of this.”
“Guys, they’re leaving.”
We both snapped back to the farmhouse.
One van started up and began down the long gravel road as the doors on the other van slammed shut. A moment later, the second van’s motor turned over.
“Fuck!” Vincent tore through the thicket and started down the hill, half running, half sliding. He quickly vanished in the dark.
Paul only stared. “Do we go after him?”
He said something else, but I didn’t hear him; I was already working my way down the hill. The gunshot wound in my leg screamed, the muscles threatened to quit, but I pressed on anyway. I couldn’t let Vincent do this alone.
I was halfway down when the first shot rang out.
I could barely make out Vincent crouching at the base of the hill, but I saw the muzzle flash when he fired the second and third shots.
The taillights on the van blinked bright red, and for a second, I thought the back doors would open and they’d fire back. Instead, the driver floored the accelerator, spraying us both with gravel as the van fishtailed, caught, and disappeared down the road.
I tripped, nearly fell, and made it to the bottom of the hill as Vincent fired off three more shots.
He had zero chance of hitting the van, not at this distance with a .
38, but he kept pulling the trigger anyway, even when it was empty.
A half dozen clicks sounded before he finally gave up and shouted, “Goddammit! Those fuckers! Those fucking assholes!”
I immediately looked back at the farmhouse, half expecting someone else to appear at the door and gun us down, but there was no one. Vincent’s cries vanished in the fields, eaten by the neglected corn and weeds until there was no sound but the crickets and our labored breathing.
I came up behind him and nearly put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Father had taught me that was the appropriate reaction.
We’d even practiced, but I always had trouble touching other people, being touched.
Always trouble with anyone but Libby. Instead, I said, “We’ll find them. ”
Vincent let out a frustrated grunt and smashed the gun against the ground several times before finally calming down. Finally getting back to his feet.
“675BG3,” Paul muttered several times between winded breaths as he reached the bottom of the hill.
I turned and frowned at him. “Huh?”
“The tag number on the van.”
“Shit.” Vincent was staring at the ground. He crouched to get a better look at whatever caught his eye.
I drew closer. “What is it?”
Then I saw.
Someone had dragged the toe of their shoe through the dirt and gravel and made a circle. The Kid did that when he was nervous. Drew circles with his foot. Half the time, he didn’t realize he was even doing it. “There’s no way to know when—”
“You know when,” he fired back. “Right before they loaded them in one of those vans. Why else would he be standing out here?”
The color drained from Paul’s face. “He needed a doctor. You saw him. They beat the hell out of him. How was he even standing?”
The Kid had been carrying a note for us; money, too.
All part of an elaborate escape plan that had fallen apart.
They’d beaten him within an inch of his life and brought him back here.
When we killed the detectives, the girls were supposed to take the Kid to a hospital, then meet us, but they never left this place.
Someone had stopped them. We were all thinking the same thing.
“Finicky musta gotten loose,” Paul said.
Vincent’s eyes were on the circle. “Could have been Van Man.”
We didn’t know his name, only that he was another dirty cop. He drove the van they sometimes used to shuttle us around. Always wore the same navy blue trench coat. Sometimes he’d just be at the hotel, like some kind of middleman between the pedophiles and the detectives. Always around, though.
“There was that patrol car, too,” I thought aloud. “The one that showed up right before we killed Stocks.”
“Right before I killed Stocks,” Vincent corrected.
I let that go. “Van Man talked to him for maybe a minute, then he turned around and left.”
“Maybe that was the guy from the note, Sam Porter,” Paul added. “Him or Van Man might have come back, overpowered the girls, untied Finicky . . .”
“I gave Kristina Stocks’s gun,” Vincent said. “She wouldn’t let . . .”
“It was empty,” I reminded him. “We don’t know if they found more ammunition.”
“Yeah, well, I got some.” Plucking bullets from his shirt pocket, Vincent reloaded his .38 and stomped up the porch steps toward the front door.