214 Palmer Street(56)
She went out the back door, leaving her bag on the stoop. With the porch light on, navigating the property was much easier. She made her way across the yard, carrying a flashlight and a crowbar she’d found in the garage. She shone the cone of light onto the ground. The earth around the shelter had been disturbed, with footprints from an adult man clearly imprinted. The lock, which had been severed, now sat off to one side. Holding it up, she saw it was a clean break, probably done by the bolt cutters she’d used earlier, which now had seemingly disappeared.
She heaved open the door. “Hello?” Taking a step backward, she turned on the flashlight, tucking the crowbar under one arm. Returning her attention to the opening, she checked again, first calling out again, and then dropping a pebble. “Is anyone down there?” She sucked in a deep breath, and talked herself through her fear.
Nothing to it but to do it.
Sarah slowly made her way down the narrow stairs, her heart pounding. With every step the air became thicker, the odor nothing she’d ever experienced. She choked back bile and tried not to think about it. “Hello?” she called out.
When she got to the bottom, she saw a woman crumpled on the ground. “Oh my God.” She dropped the crowbar, rushed over and dropped into a crouch. Touching the woman’s shoulder, she became aware of the blood pooled beneath her head and a gaping, raw hole in the middle of her forehead. She gasped in recognition. It was Clarice and she was dead. The stench suddenly became overwhelming.
Sarah jolted to her feet, her stomach churning. Clarice was dead. What the hell was going on? Was this because of her?
Her mind blurred trying to make sense of it and her heart beat in double time, pounding so quickly, she thought she might faint. “Think, think, think,” she said aloud, clutching her hand to her chest. “I need to call the police.” There was no getting around it. This was no hypothetical murder from two decades before. This horror had happened recently and she was right on top of it. Who could have done such a thing? She knew Clarice and although their friendship had faded, she’d never wished her harm.
It had been at least forty-five minutes since she’d spotted the man in the yard—the man who surely was the murderer. Chances were good he was long gone. Still, he could be nearby, maybe even waiting in the woods. For all she knew, he’d watched her come out of the house and was coming to kill her too.
She thought about her burner cell, tucked away in her backpack on the porch. Damn. So stupid of her to leave it behind. Thinking quickly, she made a plan. Get to the house. Get the phone. Call the police and then call Phil and ask him to come right away. He was the only one who could vouch for her.
Yes, that’s what she’d do.
THIRTY-FOUR
This time around I was better prepared, having doused myself with bug repellant and grabbing a small flashlight, which I’d then tucked into my bag. I drove without effort, as if pulled by a string. When I arrived in the neighborhood it came almost as a surprise. Turned out that my muscle memory had a strong knack for going back to the house I’d once thought of as a second home.
Just as I had earlier, I parked down the street and made my way through Maggie’s yard. Sneaking around on someone else’s property was not something I commonly did. So why was I doing this? It was simple. I had no choice. I had to see if Sarah found my brother’s body. My mother’s dream of my brother giving her words of reassurance seemed to be a sign. We were going to get answers soon.
When I got to the rear of the property, I peeked through the gap in the hedge that Sarah’s friend had used as an entry into the Adens’ yard. Someone had turned on the back porch light, and now I could see the mounds of dirt more clearly. The silence of the night was punctuated by the soft chirping of crickets. A slight breeze offset the humidity.
I was about to step through to the other side of the bushes when I heard the back door open. While I watched, Sarah Aden came out, letting the door close behind her, then walked tentatively toward the back. She had a crowbar in one hand, held aloft as if ready to confront an intruder. In the other hand she had a flashlight.
When she got to the doors of the bomb shelter, she picked up the broken lock and inspected it. A moment later she set it on the ground and lifted one of the handles. After the door fell to the side with a loud clank, she tentatively went to the edge of the opening and peered down into the hole. “Hello?” she called down. To my ears, she sounded afraid.
I knew the feeling. I was frightened for her. When I’d been there earlier she hadn’t even uncovered the bomb shelter yet. While I was gone someone had uncovered it and broken the lock as well, all of which appeared to be news to Sarah. If it wasn’t her, who was it? I would have loved to have stepped out of my hiding spot and helped, but I found myself frozen in place, unable to think of how I would explain my presence. So I stayed there, rooted to the ground, and quietly got my cell phone out of my pocket.
She took a step back, switched on the flashlight and tucked the crowbar under one arm. Combined with the back porch light, the yard was now as well-lit as the break of day. Now she returned to the opening, and shone the light down the stairs. “Hello!” She spoke more forcefully this time. It seemed to me that in a short time she’d mustered up some courage. She pulled on the other door, and flung it open, then cast her light down the concrete steps. She wouldn’t be able to see much of the rest of the shelter from outside, I knew. There was no way around it. If someone wanted to know what was inside, they had to go down those steps and take a look.