Evil Behind That Door (4 page)

I seized my chance and ducked outside. “I'll be back tomorrow,” I shouted as I grabbed my bike. “I'll pick up the primer on my way.”

I don't know if Barry followed me because I didn't look back. Pushing my bike took all my strength and I was down at the highway before it finally caught. I jumped aboard, sweating and gasping for breath. Goddamn, I really needed that truck. The primer and all the other supplies I needed were in the next town. An easy run for the pickup. Not for a dirt bike towing a bicycle trailer.

On my way, I passed by Bud's Garage and saw my truck still sitting in the back lot. It had been there all winter, covered in snow and slowly getting rustier. The sight drove me crazy. The roof was flattened and the tailgate was crushed. Not my fault, but tell that to the bank.

I saw Nancy working in one of the service bays and pulled over. She stopped and came over. Nancy was about ninety pounds of wrinkles and spit. She'd been working in Bud's Garage and Towing since I was born. Been running it on her own since her husband got sick. She could hardly see over the steering wheel of her truck. But she could hitch up an eighteen-wheeler with one hand.

“I heard you're working for Barry Mitchell,” she said.

Nothing's a secret in Lake Madrid. I nodded.

“You want to watch yourself. He spends most of his days up at the Lion's Head. If he's anything like his dad…”

I shrugged. “He says he's trying to start over.”

“That was Pete's line too. Always starting over, always screwing up.”

“I only remember the screwing up part.”

“Well…” Nancy gave me a thoughtful look. “He had his good side. Bought Connie the most extravagant gifts every Valentine's Day. She got enough jewelry to start a store.”

I remembered the empty box on Connie's dresser. A small thing, but it got me wondering. Where had the jewelry gone?

“Did she ever sell it?”

“If she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't. Pete would want her to parade it around. Not that she went out much. Little mouse of a thing.” Nancy sighed. “I guess it's Barry's now, not that he's got much use for it either.”

I wondered if he'd already stashed it somewhere out of the sight of lawyers and cops. It would cover his beer expenses till the house was sold.

“Well, it could come in handy. I could use some of that money.”

She grinned at my dirt bike. “Don't see why, Rick. With gas prices what they are, you may be on to something here.”

“You can't haul lumber with a bicycle trailer. Any chance you can start work on my truck? You know I'll be good for it.”

She walked over and together we stood looking at my truck. The winter hadn't improved it. “Money's tight now that Bud can't work anymore, Ricky. I'll need five hundred to buy a roof for you, just for starters.”

Last fall my truck had ended up upside down in the creek, with me in it. I'd been too rattled to pay much attention as Nancy hauled it out. Now I had a fresh look. I had some old truck parts in my yard that might do the trick. “Maybe I should just take it home and fix it up myself,” I said.

She snorted. “Maybe you should buy a new truck. With the money you make from Barry, I can probably find you something.”

If I ever see a penny of it, I thought. But I didn't tell her that. Instead I changed the subject. “Did Pete take his old Wildcat out that night?”

“That's what Barry says, if you believe him. The Cat certainly used to be Pete's favorite. It could really fly.”

“Was it in bad shape? Maybe battery or electrical problems?”

She wiped her hands on an old rag and shook her head. “Never saw it. Pete did all his own work on his machines. But he really knew his way around engines and snowmobiles, so I'm guessing he kept it tip-top. He used to come in here sometimes for parts or to borrow my tools. Him and Barry.” She chuckled. “About the only time I ever saw the two of them get along was when Barry was helping him fix things. Barry used to imitate everything he did, right down to the swagger. Still does from the looks of it.”

She headed back toward her garage, where she had an old Jeep up on the lift. “Pete always had a wild streak, and I'm betting drink finally got the better of him. Did some damn fool thing in the middle of a blizzard and sank his sled. Every few years some hotdogger tries that shortcut near the creek and fails. Folks down that end of the village have been hauling them out since the sawmill days.”

“Yeah, I saw some boats on the lake today.”

“Cops.” She picked up a wrench. “Now the ice is breaking up, they'll be looking for volunteers again.” She pulled a face. “What some people do for entertainment.”

CHAPTER
EIGHT

I
saw the boats in the bay again on my way over to Barry's the next morning. Half the town seemed to be there. I wondered what Barry was doing. If he was home, what kind of mood would he be in? How do you go about doing a home reno with half the town dragging the lake for your parents' bodies?

But when I arrived, Barry wasn't there. Again. Secretly I was glad.

I'm not a fan of snowmobiles. They're noisy and stinky, and they scare the animals. Give me a sled or skis any time. I even taught Chevy to pull a small toboggan to help me haul firewood and stuff. That's one reason people think I'm a few barrels short of a load.

But I do know engines, and that repair manual in the shed bothered me. Was something wrong with the old Cat? Had Pete tried to fix it and screwed up? What if that
was
the snowmobile he took out that night? If the police knew, they weren't talking.

I parked my dirt bike and went hunting for the Cat. There was a gutted Polaris stashed under the eaves of the barn, and some snowmobile parts in a junk pile worse than mine. I checked the barn. There were tractors, quads and two snowmobiles in there, both smaller and newer than the Wildcat.

Behind the barn I found a smaller shed. I peeked in. Bags of fertilizer, potting soil and lime were piled against the wall. Egg containers full of soil were spread out on the worktable. More pots of soil sat on the ground under dusty fluorescent bulbs. In the back was a small greenhouse full of dried-up plants.

The worktable was cluttered with baggies of seed, each labeled. Sungold tomatoes, green peppers, zucchini, cabbage. Beside them lay a pair of gardening gloves, size small. Both Pete and Barry would be size extra, extra large. So whatever Barry thought, his mother had not spent all her days watching soaps. She had worked out here, getting her garden ready for spring.

I noticed a box taped shut and shoved into the corner under the table. Curious, I pulled it out and yanked off the tape. It was crammed with papers, cards and photos. Bingo.

I sat on the ground and started to go through it. The cards were all sympathy cards. Purple flowers,
Sorry for the loss of
your son
and stuff. There was even one from my own mother.
My thoughts are with you
, she said, adding little curls on the
y
's and a heart underneath. I didn't remember my mother being Connie Mitchell's friend, or anyone else's. She liked her imaginary friends even more than I did.

A stack of report cards came next. Mine had never been great, but the teachers sure didn't pull any punches with Barry.
Aggressive
,
unpredictable
,
highly disturbed
, they called him. Then a report from a place called the Children's Care Center, which at least tried to sound like they cared. That was their job. I only understood half the words, but they said Barry was scared, angry and didn't trust anyone.

This must be where Barry had been sent. I read the reports again carefully, trying to make sense of them. The doctors said children often blamed themselves when bad things happen, and Barry seemed to blame himself for his brother's death. As I read that, the paper shook a little in my hand. I'd had that thought myself. I was nineteen when my mother crashed her car, and I still think I should have driven her that day.

There were more reports from the care center, then some letters from Barry's mother saying the center wasn't helping him. She said he was getting harder to handle. Then Barry's father pulled the plug on the treatment. The doctors disagreed, called Barry a
high risk
. Whatever that meant. But Pete said he could handle his son himself.

Right. With the back of his hand.

I stuffed the papers back in the box, feeling guilty. Had Barry ever seen these reports? Did he know how worried the doctors were? It was none of my business. But something pushed me on. Questions that nagged at the back of my brain. About family secrets, and what lay behind that door.

I reached into the bottom and pulled out a big brown envelope. I knew I shouldn't look inside. It was private.

The envelope was full of photos. There were children blowing out birthday candles, opening presents, hamming it up on tricycles. I looked carefully. I was in some of them, at a birthday party I don't even remember. Barry was in lots of them, looking like The Hulk even back then.

Another little boy kept showing up too. Younger, with baby cheeks and white-blond hair. He and Barry were often together. Two little boys on a rocking horse. At the picnic table. The one under a Christmas tree stopped me cold. The two boys were sticking their tongues out at the camera. Barry had his arm around the littler one. But it wasn't the scowl on Barry's face that stopped me. It was the shirt the little boy was wearing. Hanging over his knuckles, the colors bright and fresh like it was just out of the box.

Green and red plaid.

I shoved the photo back into the envelope and pushed the box away. My heart was hammering. I could hardly think. Was it the same cloth? Or was my mind playing tricks on me? I hid the box back under the table and scrambled to my feet. Listened. In the distance a boat droned. Voices drifted across the lake. But here on the farm, silence.

I peered out the door of the shed. The yard was empty. I thought of the room, the little body, the piece of cloth. I had to know for sure. I ran across the yard and took the basement stairs two at a time. Hoping I could outrun the fear inside me. I yanked the door open, and the loose spike clattered to the floor. Inside, I stared at the bundle in the corner. Was I right about the shirt? It was too dark. Even with a flashlight I couldn't be sure.

I dumped the shriveled apples out of one of the bins and put the skull and the cloth inside. I carried it upstairs into the bright spring sunshine of the yard. The cloth was spotted with mold, but I could still see the green and red threads of the plaid.

I stared at the skull. Brown, pockmarked and so tiny. I thought of that little white-haired boy. My breath caught, and the bin shook in my hands.

Was I right? All the time the family said he was sick with cancer in the city, was he lying dead in the basement of his own home?

CHAPTER
NINE

I
felt like I was frozen. Different ideas kept tumbling through my mind. Maybe it was time to go to the police. But what could I tell them?
I think the
Mitchells lied about their little boy's death
? What proof did I have? A scrap of rotting cloth, an old photo, a skull that might not even be human? What would they do?

They'd question Barry, for starters. It didn't take too much imagination to see where that would lead. They'd drag up his past and throw even more suspicion on him. Barry, who was just out of prison for assault. Drinking too much and so freaked out by the basement room that he never went in there. Barry sure as hell wouldn't thank me for bringing the cops down on him.

But another thing was just as sure. I couldn't stand there in his yard forever. He would come back. He would find me with the skull and he would be in a rage.
Highly disturbed.
Those doctors didn't know the half of it.

I wrapped the skull and cloth in my jacket carefully and strapped the bin onto the back of my dirt bike. Then I ran back downstairs to shut the door again. I didn't think Barry would go back into the basement, but I wasn't taking any chances.

I hardly breathed until I was back on my dirt bike, heading down the lane. Just as I turned onto the highway, Barry's truck came flying past me and skidded into his laneway. He gave me three short blasts of his horn, but I waved, hoping I looked cheerful, and carried on. I wasn't stopping for anything. I just prayed I'd hammered the door back well enough that Barry wouldn't find out what I'd done.

I revved the poor bike as high as it could go, putting distance between me and the Mitchell place. The bin was digging into my back. Reminding me I had a problem that needed an answer. Put like that, I knew what to do. Who did I go to whenever I had a problem needing an answer?

The wind picked up as I drove. I was freezing by the time I reached Aunt Penny's grocery store. I hugged the bin tightly as I raced inside. For once the store was empty. I found Aunt Penny at the back, unloading some juice bottles. She straightened up slowly, and for the first time she looked like an old lady. But then she smiled.

“Just in time, Ricky. These are heavy.”

I put in a few minutes of work before I told her I needed her help. She didn't say anything, but she gave me the eyebrow.

“Look at this,” I said, unwrapping the skull from my jacket.

She peered inside. She sucked in her breath. “What's this?”

“That's what I want to know.”

Without batting an eye, Aunt Penny carried the bin to the light. “It looks pretty old.”

“What do you think it is?”

“A skull, obviously.”

“Human?”

She paused. “Yes, human.” She poked the skull with her finger. Her hand was rock steady, but her breathing wasn't. “Where did you find this?”

I hesitated. Aunt Penny was not going to let this ride. That wasn't her style. Her eyes narrowed.

“That's why you were asking about the Mitchells' child, isn't it?”