Gone

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.”

“Talk about a welcome,” said Nora. “Knock knock knock.”

“He always did like to hang out.”

Nora laughed.

Brad laughed.

She walked over and goosed him. “Is that a nuclear missile in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Atrocious Mae West rendition.

Brad kissed her and touched her and switched off the penlight.

“Let’s get your stuff out of there. I’m sure you’re tired of mole life.”

“I’m ready,” she said. “But it was fun.”

Brad sat on the rim of the entry. As he prepared to descend, Milo rushed him, threw a choke hold around his neck, yanked him back hard onto his back. Flipped him onto his belly just as quickly, did the arm twist and cuffed him.

Nora gave no struggle when I grabbed her and yanked her arms behind her.

Milo’s knee bore down on the center of Brad’s back. Brad gasped. “Can’t breathe.”

“If you can talk, you can breathe.”

I felt Nora tense up, was ready when she tried to break free. Soft arms, not much muscle tone and her wrists were so small I could grip both with one hand. I used two anyway, pulled her hard enough to arch her torso.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Leave her alone,” said Brad.

“Leave him alone,” said Nora.

“Family togetherness,” said Milo. “Touching.”

“It’s not what you think,” said Nora. “He’s not really my brother.”

“What is he?”

She laughed. Not a pretty sound.

Brad said, “Wait until you hear from our lawyer.”

“What’s the beef?” said Milo. “Taxidermus interruptus?”

The two of them shut up.

CHAPTER 43

We marched them into the barn. Brad kept looking at Nora. She didn’t look back.

Milo said, “Hold on to her, Alex,” as he propelled Brad up the center path.

Choosing the ’59 Caddy, he stashed Brad in the front passenger seat.

“Looky here, an after-market seat belt.” The sash was drawn over Brad’s abdomen. The skin on the back of his neck had gone as white as his hair. He looked like a piece of marble statuary.

Nora focused straight ahead. Her wrists felt soft, as if bones had begun to melt. She smelled of French perfume and ca

Milo made sure Brad was secured, then closed the Caddy’s door. As metal hit metal, I felt a shock of tension course from Nora’s shoulder to her hip. She said nothing but her breathing quickened.

Then she lifted her right foot and tried to drive a spike heel into my instep.

As I danced away she began twisting and spitting. I probably hurt her maintaining control, because she cried out. Or maybe that was acting.

Milo strode over and took her. “Check the workbench and see if you can find suitable bindings for Ms. Fu

Nora Dowd said, “Brad raped me, it was nonconsensual.”

“That’s redundant,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“Nonconsensual rape.”

Confusion in the dope-ruddy eyes.

Milo said, “That’s some art project hanging from the door.”

Nora began sobbing tearlessly. “Dylan! I loved him so much, Brad got jealous and did that horrible thing! I tried to stop it, you’ve got to believe me!”

“How’d you try to stop it?”

“By reasoning with him.”

“Intellectual debate?” said Milo. “The merits of organic kapok versus polyurethane foam?”

Nora wailed. “Oh, my God! This is terrible!”

Still dry-eyed. An onion would’ve helped.

She sniffed. Looked up at Milo.

He said, “Your show’s closing due to bad reviews.”

In a workbench drawer, I found a roll of duct tape and two spools of heavy, white rope. Milo said, “Do it.”

He had Nora’s arms bent behind her back and she’d switched from crying to cursing. She swore louder as I bound her wrists, tried to head-butt Milo ’s arm. By the time he managed to drag her across the barn from the Caddy and get her in the passenger seat of a white ’55 Thunderbird, she’d gone mute.