Scarecrow (21 page)

Read Scarecrow Online

Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Scarecrow
5.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Tom slept poorly. As soon as the first light filtered into his room, he was up, showered, dressed, and in his pickup. A low mist hovered above the fields and road. He flicked on his headlights. The single caw of a crow was the only sound that disturbed the stillness.
He parked at the far end of the Sheffield farm, away from the house, near the riverbank, and stepped into the field. He wasn't sure what had drawn him here. Nothing rational. Just a hunch. If anyone stopped him, he would say he was looking for that lost arrow. He was familiar with the fields and felt at home in them. When he was younger he had been known as a “walker of the fields” by the locals—the name the Indians gave to the men and boys who searched the fields for artifacts. After much practice, the walker acquired a knack for spying arrowheads, shards of pottery, broken bits of clay pipe that worked their way to the surface of a newly plowed field—especially after a rain storm. Tom had quite a collection.
It had rained last night and the ground was soft. If he had been looking for artifacts, he would have found them. But this morning he had something else on his mind. He stopped when he saw footprints. Two deep sets, made by man-size workboots, each pair spaced about six feet apart, as if their owners had been carrying some burden between them. A heavy burden, judging from the
depth of the prints. They came from the direction of the river. He followed them, careful to keep to one side and not damage them. They led him across the field to the barn. He entered. After the open field and sky, the darkness closed around him. He felt his way past the stalls, the ladder to the loft, the broad stone trough that had once held grain, and tripped over a bump on the floor. Turning on his flashlight, he saw a metal ring. He reached down and pulled on it, hard. Nothing happened. Then it dawned on him. If the ring was attached to a trap door, he was standing on it. Duh. He moved to the left and pulled again. This time a square section of the barn floor rose. Dimly, he made out steps leading down into darkness, an even deeper darkness than the barn. Holding his light in front of him, he started down. The steps bottomed out on the rough dirt floor of a passage—not much wider than his body, and not as tall. Head bent, he edged forward until the passage dead-ended at a wall. Or a door? He played the light over its surface, searching for a knob, a lock, a keyhole. Nothing. He looked again, this time running his hand around the edge. There. This time he felt a bump. Something round and hard, like the plastic button at the back of his laptop—the one that turned it on. He pressed it.
With a groaning sound, the door, wall, whatever, began to turn inward. A thread of light no wider than a fishing line, appeared to his right. He watched it grow wider.
Under the blazing lights stood an empty cot. On the cot lay a tray. Scattered on the tray were some surgical instruments—and on the floor, a bloodstained towel.
Tom burrowed his way back through the narrow passage, climbed the ladder, and ran to his pickup. His mind racing, he had no memory of driving to the motel. A lone figure stood in the parking lot, looking up and down the road. Banks. Tom glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:15. The older man was waiting for him. Christ, what was he going to tell him? He screeched to a halt and turned in.
“I thought you forgot,” Banks said.
“I had an emergency.”
“Oh?”
“Get in. I've got to make a phone call. I'll be right back.” Tom left him and went inside. The lobby was empty—the office was closed. He called 911.
Banks had barely settled himself when Tom hitched himself into the truck.
“What's up?” Banks stared at him.
“I have an idea.” He drove fast, without speaking. At a sign reading “LOBSTER TRAP—ONE MILE,” he turned left and followed a dirt road, toward the river. Through a screen of tall, shimmering reeds, the ramshackle wooden building that housed the restaurant came into view. Behind the restaurant rose a cluster of sailboat masts, the hulking bows of a few cabin cruisers, and the water. With a spray of gravel, Tom parked in front of a small weather-beaten
outbuilding with a sign—LIVE BAIT—hanging in the window. Inside, two men were conferring over the counter. As Tom and Banks came through the forest of fishing rods, gas cans, and life preservers, one man looked up.
“Fred's lost a boat,” Paul said.
“The doctor rented it,” Fred added, “and didn't return it.”
In a borrowed boat, Tom and Banks started upriver. The mist had evaporated but the sky was heavy with dull clouds, reflected in the water. Tom had the motor at top speed, now that he knew his destination: the Wistar house, where Jo had been attacked.
Of course, that's where she would have headed. On some mission of her own, she had planned a sneak attack, a rearguard action. And, of course, she had to go alone. Some macho woman's code?
Sitting quietly in the stern, Banks demanded no explanation, and Tom offered none.
They passed an abandoned rowboat. Jo's? Tom didn't stop to investigate. They reached the house in fifteen minutes (as opposed to Jo's forty-five.)
The dock was deserted. No one was in sight outside the house. Tom moored the boat and sprinted up the slope, with Banks following more slowly. The boarded windows of the house stared blankly at them. No smoke rose from the chimneys this morning.
Tom pounded on the backdoor. The time for pussyfooting was over. No answer. They went around to the front and did the same. If he had come in his pickup instead of a boat, he would have had his tools with him to pry open the door. Frustrated, he kicked it.
Banks bent to examine the doorknob. He withdrew a contraption from his pocket that contained all the common tools necessary for daily living, from penknife to corkscrew. Applying a screwdriver,
he had the doorknob off in seconds. Tom was impressed. They pulled open the door and gasped as the odor of human filth—garbage, urine, and feces—swept over them.
Because the windows were boarded up, the only light came from the open door. After a few minutes they were able to make out the rooms. A living room, dining room, and kitchen on the first floor. The first two rooms were empty, except for piles of trash—old newspapers and garbage. In the kitchen, chicken bones, orange peels, eggshells, and coffee grounds clogged the sink, and the sticky linoleum sucked at the soles of the men's shoes with each step.
Tom was the first to mount the stairs. From the landing, a long room stretched out, filled with heavy-duty sewing machines for stitching canvas or leather. “What were they making here?” he wondered aloud.
Banks came upstairs to have a look. Familiar with printing machinery, he made an educated guess. “Belts, wallets, or handbags, probably,” he said.
Tom continued up the next set of stairs to the attic. Another long room. This one had a sloping ceiling and rows of filthy mattresses. At one end was a bathroom. The sink and toilet were stopped up. He had to hold his breath against the stink.
As Tom started down the stairs, he met Banks coming up. “Nothing there,” he reported.
Nothing significant turned up in the closets or basement, either. The two men stepped outside and inhaled the fresh air greedily.
“The bastards flew the coop,” Tom said.
 
 
Back in the boat, they started upriver. After skirting several docks, Tom cut the motor and coasted silently toward shore. There was no dock here, just a wooden post with a metal mooring. As the boat bumped against the bank, Tom stood up and examined the muddy ground. The footprints were undisturbed. He pointed them out to Banks.
“What do they mean?”
“I think Jo went to the Wistar house by boat. They discovered her and brought her here—to the Sheffield place.” He waved at the field above them. “They unloaded her and kept her prisoner.”
“Where?”
“In an old bomb shelter under the barn.” He started the motor and made a U-turn.
“But who … ?” Banks cried over the noise, his face white.
“That's what I mean to find out,” Tom screamed back.
With a sudden spurt, he headed downriver. This time when he came to the abandoned rowboat, he took a closer look at the faded stenciled letters on its side: PROPERTY OF LOBSTER TRAP. Fred would be glad to know his boat was found.
As they walked to the pickup, Tom noticed Banks was dragging. He glanced at him. He didn't look good. He must be pushing seventy. Tom dropped him at the motel, promising to keep in touch. He watched the older man cross the parking lot with slow, unsteady steps.
He's aged ten years in a few days
, he thought.
Although what he wanted to do was scream and yell and smash things, Tom cruised silently.
Be cool,
he told himself.
Think logically. Now's not the time for hysterics.
Why was he upset? What was she to him? She wasn't even polite. Hell, half the time she was downright rude.
He hardly knew where he was driving when the Sheffield farm came in sight. A police car was pulling out of the driveway. At least they had answered his call. He slowed and waved the car to a stop. Dan, an old high school buddy, was at the wheel.
Tom got out and went over to the window. The policeman cracked it open an inch. It was cold.
“What do you make of the place?” Tom asked.
“Not much to go on.”
“What about the bloody cloth?”
“Yeah. It's in back.” He tilted his head toward the gray metal container on the backseat. Dan hadn't been the sharpest guy in their class.
“Going to get a DNA?”
“Yeah. I'm gonna drop it off now. Want to come along?” Bayfield cops were lonely. Since there were only two of them, they weren't allowed to travel in pairs.
“No, thanks. But I think the blood belongs to Jo Banks.”
“The missing doc?”
“Yeah.” Must be one of Dan's brighter days. “You might want to get the name of her doctor in New York. Get her blood type. Maybe even a sample. See if you can make a match. Her father's at the Oakview Motor Lodge if you want to ask him anything. But if you ask him about the blood type, be sure to say it's just routine,” he warned.
“Right.” Dan rolled up the window.
Back in his truck, Tom continued driving. DNA tests were good, but it took time to get the results. When he was out of sight of the Sheffield farmhouse, Tom parked and got out. The cornfield on his right was still Sheffield property. He shivered, looking at the long rows. On impulse, he plunged into the cornstalks. They crackled and scratched as he bored his way between the rows. It felt good, smashing through the razor-sharp stalks. At least he was doing something. This was an ideal hiding place. No one would think of looking here. He pushed on until he came out the other side. Without a pause, he turned and pushed his way back between the next two rows. He continued until he had covered half the field and came to the scarecrow in the middle. Time to take him in, if they wanted to use him next season. He raised his eyes from the straw man to the leaden sky. Empty, except for two buzzards circling. “God, Jo!
Where are you?
”
A small movement at the base of the scarecrow. The wind? There was no wind. An animal? But there was no sound. Even a mouse would make a rustle running through these dry stalks. He stared at the scarecrow's right foot. Had it twitched?
Get hold of yourself, buddy!
His eyes moved up the faded denim overall, over the shabby gingham work shirt, to the cloth bag tied at the neck with a piece of clothesline. His hat had been lost to the wind long ago.
The painted face, faded after a season in the weather, still wore the ghost of a smile, mocking him.
What are you doing out here, jackass
, he seemed to say.
Tom pulled out his penknife. With a jerk he cut the cord. Yanking the bag upward, Jo's head lolled forward.
He lowered her gently from the pole—she had been hung by her overall straps—and cradled her in his arms. As he bored though the cornstalks, he pressed her face into his chest to protect it from the razor-sharp edges.
He lifted her onto the passenger seat of his pickup. “There you go,” he whispered. “You'll be okay now.” He propped her, limp and unconscious, into a sitting position, and ran around to the driver's side. He drove with his left arm, the other around her waist, and forced himself to drive slowly in order not to jar her. Even so, her head bounced against his shoulder. He tried to pretend they were at a drive-in movie. “This is a great picture, hon. Pretty soon this car chase will end and we'll get to the love scene … .” His voice petered out.
At the emergency entrance, he parked and stretched her out on the front seat. He ran into the emergency room and came back with a paramedic pushing a gurney. The medic transferred her expertly to the gurney and pulled a blanket up to her chin. Tom told him where he had found her.
“Shock and exposure,” the medic said, and trundled her quickly inside.
Tom followed until they disappeared into a booth and the medic pulled the curtain.
A businesslike voice spoke at his elbow. “Do you have her insurance card?”
He turned. “What?”
“Her insurance card. We need it for billing—”
“Billing?”
“It's the hospital rule,” she said crisply.
“Listen.” He leaned into her office cubicle, enunciating every syllable.” She doesn't have her card because when she went out three days ago, she didn't know she was going to be kidnapped, tortured—and
almost killed!
”
Everyone paused—orderlies, nurses, doctors, patients. The woman who had asked for the card cowered behind her desk.
“Oh, shit.” He walked out.

Other books

The Walk On by John Feinstein
Bloodhound by Ramona Koval
Crowns and Codebreakers by Elen Caldecott
Alexander (Vol. 3) (Alexander Trilogy) by Valerio Massimo Manfredi
The Red Magician by Lisa Goldstein
DRAWN by Marian Tee
Ojalá fuera cierto by Marc Levy