The Lost Door (6 page)

“I got it back in the seventies. Maintain it properly and these things will last a lifetime. I still have my father’s old one horse, one of those you have to wrap the rope around top manually. Thing still putts like a champ.” He took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked it into the water. “You ready?”

Stavic slowly shook his head. “No, but let’s do it.” He sat on the dock and stepped into the aluminum tin can. It leaned to one side and he nearly fell in. Stavic caught himself, moved to center, and stabilized it. “Is this thing safe?”

“Haven’t tipped it yet.” Harold got in effortlessly and sat, pulled the starter, and the engine roared to life. Once Stavic sat, Harold backed away from the dock, and then they were on their way. “So what are we looking for Nick?” he asked over the engine.

“Anything out of the ordinary. Waters’ body was dumped most likely by way of the river, so we’re looking for boats, launches, docks, anything that would make that easier.”

Woods encroached upon the river on either side, and besides birds and ducks they didn’t see any living thing. The engine was probably scaring away most of the animals. Stavic kept sipping at his coffee, looking from one side of the river to the other. Nothing stood out as being out of the ordinary. It was too early to think of this as a waste of time, but that’s certainly what it was feeling like. It didn’t help he was stuck on a boat the size of a large coffin. That said he felt comfortable with Harold’s piloting. Or maybe it was the cocaine. Either way, he wasn’t clawing to get off the boat like he’d expected.

“Anything juicy you can share? I know you don’t tell the public everything.”

They hadn’t released many details of their investigation, and he wasn’t sure how much he could trust with Harold.

“Come on,” Harold prodded. “Give me something. You know what they say about bait shop owners? We’re like shrinks.”

“That’s bartenders.”

“Same difference.”

Stavic couldn’t help but laugh. He had to give Harold credit: intentional or not, he was doing a good job putting him at ease.

“Is it true he was skinned alive?” Harold asked.

Stavic stared at Harold shocked. “Is that the rumor?”

“One of them.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable. No, he wasn’t skinned alive.”

“What then?”

“He’d been gutted.”

Now it was Harold’s turn to look shocked. “Oh that’s much better.” Harold paused, his eyes moving about as if searching. “It sounds similar to what happened back in the late 50’s. Know anything about that?”

“First I’m hearing of it.”

“Husband and wife murdered, much like you described.”

“Did they ever catch who did it?”

“Not that I heard. I’m guessing if they had there would have been a parade for those who’d managed it. Lot of people were scared for a while, waiting for something to happen to them.”

It definitely couldn’t hurt to look into it. It wouldn’t be the first time an old case came back out of the blue.

Stavic suspected Harold could be trusted to stay quiet, but he felt he had to say it just to be safe. “What I’ve told you you have to keep to yourself. Can you do that?”

“I didn’t get to be this age by gossiping, Nick.”

“Good.”

They came to a point where a narrow waterway joined them.

“What’s that?” Stavic asked.

“Lake Crescent. Only lake in the area that connects to the river.”

“Anything in there worthwhile?”

“Nah. People’s cabins—all good people I might add—and that bar, The Thirsty Whale. Other than that not much. Good fishing if you’re into that sort of thing. There’s a good rock bed—”

Stavic cut him off. “Let’s keep going.”

They continued on another fifteen minutes in silence. The drone of the motor soothed Stavic, and he’d almost dozed off when Harold said, “Look over there.” Harold pointed to the right side of the river.

Stavic did as instructed, the engine quieting as Harold slowed. “What am I looking at?”

“A blind.”

He didn’t see it. “You sure?”

“Positive.” He idled in towards shore and, sure enough, there it was, made of pine branches and leaves sidled right up to the edge.

“Pull in next to it,” Stavic instructed. Harold ran the boat aground, the aluminum boat echoing the scratching of sand and twigs beneath. He jumped out, grabbed the bow, and pulled the boat in. “Stay here.”

Stavic inspected the blind. It was made of thick branches tied together with twine. The roof and walls were pine branches with leaves thrown over to fill in the gaps. It blended in perfectly with the forest around it. “I’m going to go take a look. Be back soon.”

“Should I come with?”

“No. I got this.”

His walk was near silent over the earthen ground. The incline was gradual but long, and he started to get winded as he made his way up. Nature sang to him. As he climbed he tried to calculate where he was between town and where Waters was found. His rough estimate put him about two miles from Waters’ body—eight from town, three from where they started. They were also on the other side of the river, an area he knew next to nothing about.

While he hadn’t grown up in River Bend, he’d grown up in a rural community that had plenty of woods where a boy could be mischievous. His mother had never remarried, and she was protective but not smothering which allowed for him to get into trouble from time-to-time. There’d been a couple times a police officer had escorted him home much to the dismay of his mother. He wouldn’t have considered himself a wild child, but he loved the adrenaline rush he’d get when jumping from the cliffs at the Eau Claire Dells into the cool water below, or drag racing out on a country road.

Ironic that he became a cop.

Stavic was ready to turn around when he crested the hill. Below sat a small log cabin no more than eight-hundred square feet. All was silent and still, no smoke wafting from the chimney. And while he did see a path running through the woods to the cabin he saw no vehicle. He was pretty sure he was alone and made his way down the hill quietly.

Curtains were drawn across the windows. He walked along the perimeter listening intently for any sound coming from within. He was pretty sure he was alone so climbed the front porch.

Should he knock or just enter? Best to play it by the book.

Was that…? Stavic thought he heard movement. He rapped gently on the door.

“Hello?”

He listened. This time he didn’t hear movement but thought he heard something close. Maybe a cabinet or a door?

“Police. Open up please.”

When no one answered he took the knob and turned it. The door swung open.

The dinginess made the hair on the back of his neck stand and he pulled his gun.

“Show yourself,” he called out. From the stillness he knew he was alone in the dark cabin.

But then what was that you heard?
he asked himself.

There was a kerosene lantern hanging on a rusty nail where he’d expected a light switch to be. This far off the beaten path there was probably no power. He found a book of matches on a utility shelf. He struck the match, the scraping sounded loud in the stillness. The flame flickered. He touched the match to the wick and the orange light illuminated the darkness.

With each step on the wooden floor his boots sounded like a cannon echoing through the room. Not much here save for a bed, a nightstand next to it, and a recliner.

And an eviscerated body.

It was slumped against one wall, pale and naked. With the head drooping he couldn’t make out the face.

“Nick?”

He whipped around, saw Harold in the doorway.

“Jesus!” he huffed.

“Sorry, but I got curious. What…”

And then he saw the room and turned white.

“Out!” Stavic shouted, following after him.

“Who—?”

Stavic had his phone in hand. “I don’t know, but I’m calling in the cavalry.”

* * *

It was warmer out than it had been, and Claire had the cleaning bug. She’d let this place go over the last several months and it was time to tidy up. A fresh breeze came through the open window pushing the stale air out. She wanted this place back in tiptop shape by the time Emily returned home.

She began immediately after Emily left for school, starting on the first floor and working her way up. She dusted and vacuumed and mopped, and by ten o’clock she was onto the second floor. Claire went to her room, tackling the obvious things first. She stripped her bed and tossed old magazines; a chickadee sang outside the window.

She went to the closet—it had a slight musty smell to it—and stared at the mess. Claire needed to take an inventory and decide what to keep; there were way too many outfits she no longer wore. But first the laundry. She pulled out the hamper and sorted them into piles. After she was done in here she’d clean Emily’s room, grab her laundry and add them to the mix.

All these old and outdated clothes. Maybe this weekend she could get Emily to go to the store with her and help her update her wardrobe. She could use a little of her savings, and it would be nice to have a mother-daughter day, something they hadn’t done in… how long? Claire flipped through the shirts and dresses
tsking
herself. God! When did she become old?

Claire was about to close the door when a box caught her eye. It was shoved in the back corner, barely visible in the shadows. On the side was written in bold letters
DEVON.
She slid the box out and stared at it. She’d completely forgotten about this, a collection of her ex-husbands relics from before the divorce. She’d stashed a few things she hadn’t been ready to part with, more for Emily than herself. While he had crushed her, Devon had been Emily’s father and she deserved to have
something
from him.

She pulled the flaps and opened the box. On top were an assortment of photos, some group shots while others of just Devon. There were a few cassettes of her husbands favorite music, a couple of books, and other trinkets. And there was the manila envelope with the divorce papers, still unlooked at after all these years. At some point the metal fastener had broken free and the flap easily lifted, the white papers within visible.

Claire began to wonder if the divorce was legal if she’d never even looked at these papers. Maybe there had been something else she’d needed to sign and never did? But that was stupid, she realized. If that were the case her attorney would have contacted her. Claire was tempted to pull the papers out, finally cement the divorce by seeing it in writing, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She tossed the envelope back into the box and put it on a chair next to the dresser. Maybe she’d finally give it to Emily once she’d had a chance to sort through it all.

Emily’s room was next. There was a slight dirty odor, so she opened the window. The room itself was decent enough, definitely not the best she’d seen of her daughter, but certainly not the worst. There weren’t dishes caked in food or half-filled cups around the room. There were, however, clothes scattered about and a desk covered in papers and books. This wasn’t typical of Emily—she was usually so meticulous with everything in its place—but she was a teenager and teenagers sometimes got lazy. And who was she to judge anyway?

Claire sorted Emily’s clothes and tided up her desk and changed the sheets on her bed. The vacuum bumped something under the bed. She killed the power and reached under and pulled out an ashtray. Two stamped out cigarette butts were in it.

Smoking? When did Emily pick up that nasty habit? She was going to have to speak to her about this.

The nightstand drawer taunted her. If her daughter was smoking what else was she keeping hidden from her?

No! You’re invading her privacy.

True, but she was still her mother, and this was her house, and she had a right to know what her daughter was doing. It was her responsibility to protect her.

Claire opened it. She breathed a sigh of relief, almost laughed, as nothing jumped out at her. She’d half expected to find drugs or drug paraphernalia stashed in here. Cigarettes weren’t good, but there were far worse things Emily could be doing to rebel. Tobacco she could handle.

She stood and went to the trashcan next to Emily’s desk, picked it up, and dumped the butts into it.

And her heart stopped.

She reached in, hand trembling, and lifted out a thin plastic bag. Through it she could see the contents. Hoping,
praying,
she was wrong she reached in and pulled out the box. A pregnancy test.

Her mind was a whirlwind, didn’t know what to think. Was Emily pregnant?

She opened the box but it was empty.

Breathe,
she told herself.
Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe it was her friend’s. Jessica.

But how could she not? The last thing she wanted was to see Emily making the same mistakes she’d made. If that happened then she had failed as a mother.

Claire sat there a while, unsure how to react. She was going to have to talk to her about this.