Chapter 6
-
Rural Kentucky
The rebuilt Fisher home sat on the same footprint where the original house had burned years earlier, nestled in a valley between two rolling hills about fifty miles southeast of Lexington.
Drake parked the Toyota Land Cruiser at the end of the gravel driveway and Flint studied the structure through the windshield.
Three stories, red brick construction, Georgian colonial architecture with symmetrical windows and white trim.
Drake emerged from the driver’s seat, adjusting his sunglasses against the midday glare. “Creepy as hell, rebuilding it exactly the same.”
“Grief makes people do strange things.”
They walked up the gravel path toward the front door. The property was isolated, woods stretching behind the house and the nearest neighbor at least five miles away through the rolling hills. Perfect place to make something happen without witnesses.
Flint knocked on the front door. Shuffling slow footsteps approached from inside, as if she were afraid to pick up her feet. Vivian Fisher, Jason’s mother, opened the door. A tired woman in her early seventies with graying hair pulled back in a simple ponytail and no makeup.
“Mrs. Fisher? I’m Michael Flint. Your son Jason hired me.”
Her pale blue eyes, the same color as Jason’s, studied Flint’s face for a long moment. She glanced at Drake, then back to Flint.
“He said you might come by.” Her voice was soft, with the faint accent of someone who’d lived in Kentucky her entire life. “Come in.”
The interior was as unsettling as the exterior. Traditional furniture, family photographs on the mantelpiece, everything arranged with the careful precision of a museum exhibit. Or a shrine.
Vivian led them to a sitting room with two sofas facing each other across a coffee table. She took the chair by the window. The afternoon light caught the lines around her eyes, deeper than they should have been for her age.
“Jason thinks his siblings are alive,” she said without preamble.
“Do you?” Flint asked.
“I lost my children years ago. I’ve mourned them every day since.” Her hands were folded in her lap, but Flint caught the slight tremor in her fingers. “I can’t hope they’re alive. When that hope is destroyed, it would kill me.”
Flint leaned forward. “Mrs. Fisher, please tell us about the night of the fire. We need to understand what happened.”
Vivian’s face went distant. “October twenty-third. Bruce had a basketball tournament at the high school. We went. Harry, myself, Jason, and Bruce. We left at six-thirty.”
She paused, her fingers working at the hem of her sleeve.
“The twins both had colds. Coughs and runny noses, like kids do. I almost brought them anyway, but Harry said the gymnasium would be drafty and might make them worse. Maureen was teething and fussy, too. In the end, we decided to leave all three with Lizzy.”
“Elizabeth Pace,” Flint said, leading her along.
“That’s right. Sweet girl. She’d been babysitting for us since she was fourteen. The children loved her.” Vivian’s voice caught slightly, and tears filled her eyes. “She would never have left them alone. Never.”
Flint changed the subject before she could spiral into sobs. “What time did you get home?”
“Ten forty-seven.” Her precise answer suggested she’d relived this moment thousands of times, looking for answers she never found. “The house and everything in it was gone. Just the foundation and some smoldering timber. The fire department was here, but there was nothing left to save.”
“No remains were found?” Drake asked.
Vivian shook her head. “Fire chief said the fire burned too hot for too long. Old wiring, I guess.”
“Did you believe that?”
She paused a good long while before she replied, “Harry didn’t.”
“What did your husband believe had happened?” Flint asked.
“Harry had made some bad business investments a few years earlier.” Vivian’s voice became careful, choosing each word. “Pain management clinics. He thought he was helping bring healthcare to rural communities. He didn’t know his business partners were involved in illegal activities.”
Flint noted the diplomatic phrasing. Jason had mentioned his father staying quiet when he should have spoken up. Was this what he meant?
“What kind of illegal activities?” Drake asked.
“Pills. Prescription drugs. Smuggled in. Stolen and sold illegally. Several things like that,” she said in a whispery tone. “When Harry found out, he tried to get out of the business, but it was complicated. The DEA got involved and...”
“You think the DEA was at fault for the fire and the death of your children?” Drake asked incredulously.
“Harry cooperated with them. Gave them what information he could. They stopped hounding him.” She stood and walked to the window. “He thought it was over.”
“But it wasn’t,” Flint said.
“Harry’s contact at the DEA stopped returning his calls two weeks before the fire. We found out later the man had been found dead in a Louisville hotel. They said suicide.”
Flint felt pieces of the puzzle beginning to connect. A DEA informant. A house fire that destroyed evidence. Missing or dead children.
“Who else knew about Harry’s cooperation with the DEA?” he asked.
“Harry never told me the details. Said it was safer if I didn’t know.” She returned to her chair, suddenly looking every one of her seventy-three years. “After the fire, he never spoke of it again. Not until the day he died.”
“What did he say then?”
“That he was sorry. That he’d failed them.” Tears started down her cheeks and her voice caught. “That he should have brought all the children to the game that night. We mourned the house, of course. It had been in my family for more than a hundred years. But the children…”
Drake pulled out a small notebook. “Mrs. Fisher, do you remember anything unusual happening that week? Anyone who came by the house? Phone calls? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Vivian was quiet for a long moment. “There had been some strange calls before. Harry would answer and whoever was on the other end would hang up. That went on for about two weeks before the fire.”
“Anyone come to the house?” Flint asked.
“A few days before, someone called asking about buying one of our horses. Harry told them we weren’t selling, but they wanted to come look anyway. Harry said no.”
“Did they come anyway?” Drake wanted to know.
“I saw a white van parked at the end of our drive one afternoon. Just sitting there. When I looked again an hour later, it was gone.”
Flint made a mental note. Surveillance, most likely.
“Mrs. Fisher,” Flint said carefully, “Jason showed me surveillance footage of a man who looks like one of your sons. Taken six weeks ago.”
Her hands gripped the arms of her chair. “Don’t.”
“If there’s a chance they survived.”
“I said don’t.” Her voice was steel now. “I can’t go through that again. I’ve built a life around accepting they’re gone. If you tear that down...”
She stood abruptly and walked to the mantelpiece, picking up a framed photograph. Three small children playing in a yard. The twins and baby Maureen.
“Find the truth if you must. But don’t ask me to hope. I’ve used up all my hope. I can’t be disappointed again,” she said in a whisper. “It would kill me.”
Flint and Drake left a few minutes later. As they walked back to the Land Cruiser, Drake said, “She knows more than she’s telling us.”
“Probably knows more than she wants to admit to herself,” Flint agreed. “Someone was definitely watching the family. Getting ready.”
Drake started the engine. “Ready for what? Arson or kidnapping?”
“Seems like both.”
They drove in silence for several miles through the rolling hills dotted with horse farms and pastures before Drake spoke again. “If Harry Fisher was a DEA informant and someone wanted him silenced, why not just kill him? Why the elaborate fire? Why take the children?”
“Send a message. Eliminate witnesses.” Flint had been wondering the same thing since Jason first approached him. “Or the children might have been insurance. Guarantee Harry’s continued silence.”
Drake popped his eyebrows north. “For twenty-four years?”
“Harry’s been dead for ten. If the children were taken as leverage against him, what happened to them after he died?” Flint mused aloud. He didn’t have the answer. But he intended to find out.
Drake guided the Land Cruiser through the winding country roads. They needed to examine the property more thoroughly, check the woods behind the house where someone might have waited. Sometimes the land held clues that buildings couldn’t hide.
Flint’s experience led him to believe he was only beginning to scratch the surface of whatever had happened on that October night.
Odds were that the children and their babysitter had died tragically in the fire.
But if the Fisher kids were missing or hidden, someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep them that way.
Flint studied the side mirror as Drake guided the Land Cruiser down the long and winding gravel drive away from the Fisher house. A black SUV sat parked on the shoulder of the main road, positioned with clear sightlines to the property entrance.
“Company,” Flint said.
Drake checked his rearview mirror. “How long?”
“Wasn’t there when we arrived.”