Chapter 8
8
Braden
M y teeth grind together as Chief Roscoe knocks on the door of a dilapidated house on the edge of the forest. There’s no sound but I don’t give a shit because I’m going to kick down this door if I have to.
“Patience,” Dave Roscoe warns. “I know you’re invested in this, Mr. Rockwell, but we don’t have a warrant. We need to be invited inside.”
I stare at the chief’s florid face.
“I don’t give a fuck about warrants,” is my growl. “I’ll fucking tear this place apart with my bare hands if I have to.”
The police chief maintains his cool despite my threats.
“I hear you, but the Town of Fairview doesn’t want to be the target of a lawsuit. So we’re going to wait here until they answer.”
“They better fucking answer this door!” I rage in a whisper, the blood in my veins boiling as my hands form into fists. “They have my girlfriend inside! I know it!”
Chief Roscoe shakes his head.
“Now, don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know that. There was a mysterious fire at the cabin, which took out acres of brush—”
“That fire wasn’t wildfire,” I state in a harsh tone. “You know it was arson, and now my girlfriend’s missing!”
Chief Roscoe’s about to reply when the door creaks open, and a seventy-year-old man peers out at us. His teeth are yellow and tobacco-stained and I can count the number of white hairs on his forehead. The man wears beat-up overalls like he’s out of Howdy-Doody , and his fingernails are black with grime.
“Chief Roscoe,” he says with a rattle to his voice. “What brings you here?”
“It’s good to see you, Jim,” the chief replies. “We have some questions about the fire up the hill. It was on your property, I believe, and the town wants to make sure that everything’s fine, especially since California’s been ravaged by wildfire recently. Can we come in?”
The old man shoots me a suspicious glare.
“No. Who’s this?”
“This here is Braden Rockwell,” the chief adds in a smooth tone. “Mr. Rockwell is an expert in fire safety. He’s got a lot of experience and actually happens to live just up the hill from your property. You’re neighbors.”
The old man looks at me craftily, and then grins. Literally, a ghastly smile breaks out across his face.
“Neighbors, hmm?” he sing-songs while stepping back to allow us entry. “You said your name was Rock?” he inquires like he doesn’t know.
“Yes, Braden Rockwell,” I respond in a deep tone.
“And where are you from?” Jimbo simpers.
“Here and there,” I say vaguely. “I work all over.”
The old man nods, trying to appear sage, as we step into a dilapidated sitting room. There’s a massive flat screen on the floor, and a sad, patchy couch in front of it. The walls are water-stained and the windows sag in their frames. The entire place stinks to high heaven of pot, but it seems they’ve sprayed air freshener to try and mask the smell.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work because a bucketful of Glade wouldn’t be enough hide the stench. No, hazmat suits are what’s needed, although I try to keep my expression neutral as the old man gestures to the couch.
“Take a seat,” he invites with a cackle. “You work all over, hmm? Some kind of lone wolf? You got a permanent place?”
I stare at him, my blue eyes flinty.
“I travel a lot,” I say in a vague tone. “I stay here and there.”
The old man grins, thinking he’s pushed me into a trap.
“I’m sure,” Jimbo simpers once more. “Putting down roots is overrated. Now what’s this about a fire?”
Chief Roscoe pulls out a pad, his expression serious.
“As you know, there was a fire on your property. I believe your daughter Grace lives there, overseeing your marijuana operation.”
That’s when a young man steps into the room. He’s clearly a chip off the old rock, judging from his stained wife-beater, straggly hair, and missing teeth.
“Yeah, my sister Grace oversees the growing operations of Treadwell Cannabis,” the young man interjects. “And you are?” he asks, staring at me with bloodshot eyes.
“This here’s Braden Rock,” Jimbo sings while staring pointedly at me. “You know. Our new neighbor.”
“Oh right,” Robbie Treadwell responds, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I see.”
What the fuck is wrong with these dudes? I realize that I haven’t been upfront about my identity. The lodge I’m building is owned by an LLC, and can’t be traced to me personally. Not only that, but I haven’t been using my full name when I come into town. Instead, I use the name “Braden Rock” to maintain my anonymity.
After all, as a billionaire, there’s a ton of shit about me on-line, from my business deals to my amorous exploits. Most of it is made-up, but there’s no need to fan the flames. I’ve enjoyed living on the downlow, and have half a mind to change my name permanently because it’s been nice like this. Peaceful, even. No one’s asked for anything, no one’s tried to talk to me, and for the most part, people leave me alone. Hell, I definitely should change my name if I want to enjoy the quiet life.
But right now, something’s off. It’s clear Jim and Robbie Treadwell have done some digging around. They know that I live up the mountain, and that I’ve been seeing Grace. That much is clear. So I try to play it cool.
“The fire at your farm spread,” I say in a neutral voice. “It crossed property lines and some of the land on my side was affected too. Any idea who started it?”
“Oh no,” Jimbo wheezes immediately. “But it could be anything. A match. A cigarette. A spark from a power line. Shit is unpredictable these days.”
“Does Grace smoke?” Officer Roscoe asks with a direct look at Jim. “And where is Grace, by the way? Is she here? Can we talk to her? I’m sure she’d have pertinent information.”
Robbie shakes his head.
“Grace decided to travel,” he lies through his teeth with a sneer my way. “She only left recently, as a matter of fact. She asked me to oversee the farm in her absence, and so I went there yesterday morning to check up on things, and that’s when I discovered that everything was burned to the ground. So sad,” he says with a fake frown. “But we’ve harvested enough for the year already, so Treadwell Cannabis will be fine. We have plenty of product to carry us through the next sixteen months or so.”
I stare at this man because he’s clearly lying.
“Arson is a crime,” I say in a steady voice. “Fairview FD will do an investigation, and determine the source of the fire.”
Robbie’s not intimidated.
“Yeah, but this shit happens so often these days, and Fairview FD is backed up right now. Hell, most of our firefighters are still down in Southern California, trying to assist with the Palisades Blaze. They won’t be home for a long time, and maybe another fire will start up before they’re back. Then, they’ll have another tour of duty, and who knows what will happen then? Besides, it’s always PG storage tanks are empty; and this is a public resource that private individuals are siphoning for their own good. You wouldn’t be doing that at your farm, would you?”
The two men’s eyes are as round as saucers, but Robbie manages to speak in calm tone.
“No, not at all. Besides, our farm is small so we wouldn’t be using much. Who tipped you off anyways? I mean, who’s spreading these malicious rumors?” he hisses.
Chief Roscoe stays calm.
“Well, it would be Mr. Rockwell, right here beside me. He’s your neighbor, and noticed that his water bill indicated far higher usage than anything he was doing on his property. That raised questions of water theft, and that’s why we’re here. To talk about the issue, in addition to the suspicious fire that recently broke out at your cabin. And again, we’d love to speak with Grace too. If you could get her on the phone, that would be ideal.”
For the first time this afternoon, the Treadwells look scared. The conversation’s taken an unexpected left turn and Robbie turns to me slowly.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Braden Rockwell,” I reply in a deep tone. “Not Braden Rock. Rockwell . I live in Vegas most of the year, and came to Tahoe to relax for the summer. Like Chief Roscoe mentioned, I’m building a lodge up the way from your property. We’re neighbors.”
Suddenly, whatever the Treadwells believed is obviously lies and nonsense. They’ve been caught off-guard, and a sweat breaks out on Robbie’s lip as Jim begins to tremble.
“Well, ah, Mr. Rockwell—”
That’s when I hear it. Actually, all of us hear it. There’s a distinct knocking noise which is repetitive and also a bit hollow-sounding. What the fuck? What is that?
“Someone’s banging on a pipe,” Chief Roscoe growls. “Who else is here?”
Holy shit, Gracie’s signaling to us! They’ve trapped her somewhere in this godforsaken shithole, and I’m going to tear the place apart finding her.
They can’t stop me either. One moment, I’m on the couch talking, and the next, I’m wandering around the room, touching walls and looking up at the ceiling. The tap-tap-tap continues and Chief Roscoe fixes the men with a stare.
“Where is she?” he demands. “It’s your sister, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, it’s just a water leak,” Jimbo explains quickly. “The house is old and we haven’t had time to call the plumber yet. It’s the dripping of the leak.”
“That’s not a leak,” Dave Roscoe growls again. “That’s a fucking signal.”
By now, I’ve identified the door to the basement and wrench it open. A dark maw yawns up at me but I step into the void because goddamnit, they have Grace in here. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.
“Hey, stop, stop!” Jimbo cries with desperation. “The basement is unsafe! The house is structurally unsound and we’ve been warned not to go down there.”
I ignore his pleas. The cellar is a dark, dank place with cobwebs on every surface and a musty yet rancid smell. What the fuck? That’s when I see it. There’s a small structure and it looks like a room has been erected from raw plywood.
“Grace?” I call. “Gracie, is that you?”
The tap-tap-tapping gets louder, and more furious. In a frenzy, I locate a pair of bolt-cutters and clip the lock before yanking open the door. My beautiful girl falls into my arms, crying and wheezing.
“Braden!” she whisper-screams, eyes rolling with fear. “Get me out of here!”
She doesn’t need to ask twice. Within seconds, I have the curvy girl in my arms and I’m bolting up the stairs at light speed. Gracie needs me ... and I’ll do everything in my power to provide safe haven.