When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(64)

“But I remember lights in the basement. Running water.”

“There’s a well,” Walt says and points a hundred yards off. “Jacob fixed the pump. Not that hard to do.”

“And the electricity?”

“Tapped into a line, or was using battery-operated devices. I didn’t pay much attention myself, but again, not hard.”

Says the guy with an entire growing operation in his ramshackle barn.

“Why didn’t anyone notice?” Keith again. “I mean, if this is an abandoned property, shouldn’t someone have realized lights were suddenly going on at night?”

“Where are the neighbors to realize?”

Keith and I look around. We see trees and more trees, then a wide, heavily rutted dirt road leading away from the house.

“’Sides,” Walt says, “at least when Jacob brought me here, he didn’t turn on lights upstairs, only in the cellar.”

I nod slowly. I hadn’t thought about it, but for our entire stay in the house, we were in the basement, even Jacob. It hadn’t occurred to me that might be because he didn’t want to give away that he was squatting in a deserted house.

I also understand now why the FBI was never able to find traces of this place’s location. It hadn’t turned over ownership or gone into foreclosure, or even had a real estate identity. It was just an abandoned shack in the woods.

Again, clever and crazy.

Now Walt steps cautiously onto the front porch, skirting the massive hole in the middle. He leads with his right foot, testing each board before adding his whole weight.

I follow behind him, well aware that this is the height of stupidity. That I got out of this goddamn prison once, and now will probably plunge through some rotted piece of wood to my doom. But I can’t stop myself. Already this is everything and nothing like I imagined.

The smell hits me. Mold and mildew. And just like that I’m in the basement again. I reel slightly, put out a hand. Keith catches me, while ahead Walt pauses.

“You’re sure?” he asks. He’s carrying the shotgun loosely at his side. Whether to protect against any nesting varmints or extract revenge for his son’s death, I have no idea. I feel punch-drunk, a woman on a tightrope, peering at the certain death looming below and admiring the view.

I should call D.D., I think again. And not out of investigative duty, but because she’d kick my ass for doing this, and right now her brand of tough love is probably exactly what I need.

Instead, I follow Walt over the threshold.



* * *



—

    THE MAIN LIVING AREA IS smaller than small, with a crude attempt at a galley kitchen to the left and a giant hole in the wall straight ahead where a woodstove once lived. Standing beside me, Keith sneezes, then sneezes again. Dust whirs up in disturbed clouds. If Jacob had been a squatter, apparently no one has reclaimed the space since.

“When did Jacob bring you here?” I ask Walt now.

He shrugs. “Years ago—”

“What month?” I interrupt.

He has to think about it. “August.”

“You’re sure? That’s the first time you came to this place?”

“Pretty sure.” He scratches his beard. “I mean, I don’t pay much mind to the calendar.”

“I would’ve been here, five, six months by then. You didn’t know before?”

“I had no idea my son had returned to the area, let alone was living in this here cabin with some girl locked in the cellar. Like I said, he found me. Walked right up and introduced himself in the bar.”

“Why?” Keith asks.

“Said he wanted to finally meet his old man.”

“What was his mood like?” Keith again.

“Dunno. He shook my hand, offered to buy me dinner. I didn’t say no to dinner.”

“And just like that,” I speak up, “he reappears, buys you a meal, then introduces you to his sex slave?”

Walt frowns at me. “I saw him around a few more times. Even brought him to the old homestead. I was growing dope back then. Jacob appreciated it. I could tell the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Guy that hard-looking, he was his old man all over again. Nothing he wouldn’t drink or snort. I tried to warn him, but he just laughed, told me not to worry.” Walt shrugs again. “Not my place to judge another man.”

“Did he tell you what he did?” Keith asks.

“Long-haul trucker.”

“And his mom?” My turn. “Did he mention her?”

“Nah. And I didn’t ask.”

“He had a daughter. Did he mention her?”

Walt looks more uncomfortable. “He showed up. Bought me dinner. We did a little talking. A little visiting. I wasn’t sure why he’d returned. What he wanted. I was still figuring it out, when he brought me here one night. Told me he wanted to show me something. Told me I’d be proud of him.”

Walt stares at me. “You don’t remember?”

I’m honestly not sure. Multiple voices in the basement? It rings a bell, but I can’t bring it into focus. I suffer an impression of incredible thirst and hunger. Of hearing footsteps and thinking desperately: Finally, I’ll be let out. There’d be burgers or wings or whatever Jacob’s most recent craving was. And water. I desperately wanted water.