And There He Kept Her (Ben Packard #1)(18)

“Shut up, Carl.”





Chapter Seven


Packard got up early, put on his clammy wet suit, and walked down to the lake. He did a shallow dive from the end of the dock, surfaced, then moved through the water with the grace of a kayak. His arms arced and plunged in a steady rhythm, pulling him through the forty-seven-degree water to the center of the lake and back.

Since buying the house, he’d already developed a reputation as being the crazy guy who swam from April to November. He’d swum in high school and college, well enough for a scholarship but not fast enough to break any records or be much more than a reliable leg in the relay.

When he was done with his laps, Packard put his hands on the end of the dock and lifted himself out of the water and into a sitting position. He peeled off his goggles and wiped his face.

A great gray owl roosting in the open, not far from her nest at the top of a dead tree, watched him as he toweled his hair. He’d first noticed her there a week earlier, a sign that her clutch had hatched. A fish flopping on the surface of the lake caught her attention, but then she turned her large facial disk back in his direction, rings of black and white feathers receding toward two yellow eyes.

Packard gave her a nod, like a neighbor.

***

Susan hadn’t called or texted during the night so Packard knew Jenny still wasn’t home. When he got to the station, he checked on his BOLO and found out there’d been no sightings of the car or the two teens. No reports from any of the local hospitals either.

He reviewed the other news from the overnight shift, then made a list of what he wanted to do next. He wanted to talk to Ann Crawford, Jesse’s mom, when she wasn’t drunk. He wanted to talk to Sean White Cloud to see what he knew about Jenny from the time he was in their house regularly, taking care of her dad. Sleeping with Susan might also have given him some insight into her and Jenny’s relationship.

The address on record for Ann Crawford led him to a place five blocks off Main Street. The house was a tan box in need of paint and a new roof. The yard was more dirt than grass. He climbed two steps and banged on an aluminum storm door. A mountain bike lay on its side next to the steps. He looked back across the street and saw an old woman watching from her front window.

The front door pulled open with a hooshing sound. A teenage girl with long, straight hair stood in the doorway. She had eye makeup on only one eye.

“I’m Deputy Packard with the sheriff’s department. What’s your name?”

“Alissa.”

“Alissa, is your mom home?”

The girl shook her head. She had thick lips covered in pink gloss, and a look on her face like she didn’t appreciate the interruption. “She’s at work.”

“Your brother home?”

“Nope.”

“You seen him at all today? Heard from him?”

“Nope.”

Packard pulled open the storm door and climbed the top step. Behind the girl, he caught a glimpse of a shirtless teenage boy with buzzed hair and lots of red acne duck away from an arched doorway into the kitchen. On the coffee table, two cigarettes smoldered in an ashtray next to a game controller and a scattered collection of makeup products. The girl took a step back, unsure whether she should try to stop him from coming in or not. He stayed just outside the door. “No text messages, nothing from your brother?”

“No.”

“Who’s that in the kitchen?”

Alissa looked over her shoulder like she had to be sure who he was asking about. She shrugged and gave him a weary look. “No one. A friend.”

Packard nodded. “Shouldn’t you and your friend be in school?”

Alissa shrugged again. It seemed to be the primary form of communication for her species. “We’re sick,” she said.

“I see. Remind me where your mom works.”

“At the lumberyard.”

“Wellards?”

“That’s what I said.”

Packard nodded as if the mistake had been his. “I appreciate your help, Alissa. I hope you and your friend feel better. Giving up the cigarettes might help.”

He let the storm door close behind him as he went down the steps. The old woman in the window across the street was still watching, shaking her head.

***

Wellards was a big-box hardware retailer with a new store half a mile east of town on Highway 18. Packard parked close to the main entrance. The car and the uniform caused people to tap their brakes and slow their pace as they watched where he went. He stopped at the service counter and asked a middle-aged woman with blond hair and a green apron where he could find Ann Crawford. She asked him to wait while she picked up a white phone hanging on the wall. “She’s out in the lumberyard in the inventory control booth,” she said, hanging up the phone and smoothing her apron. “I can have someone take you back there if you want.”

“I know where it is.”

The blond woman leaned across the counter. “Is she in trouble? Did she do something?”

“No, ma’am. She is not in trouble,” Packard said.

The blond looked disappointed by the news. Or by being called ma’am.

Packard walked up the main aisle, past pallets of blue wiper fluid, aerosol cans of flat-tire fixer, and fifty-pound bags of lawn starter. A recorded ad on the overhead speakers encouraged shoppers to apply for a Wellards credit card and receive 2 percent cash back on all their purchases.