Gone(5)

“What’s going on?”

“The hospital called. A nurse there has missed two straight shifts. They’ve tried her at home, no answer. This would be her third shift tonight, but she’s not showing up again.”

“Where? She’s local? New Brighton?”

“Yeah.” Stokes gave him the address.

“I gotta go right by there. Tell the sheriff I’ll check it out.”

“Will do.”

Within twenty minutes (and through Three Dog Night and a rocking CCR tune) he was outside New Brighton, passing by the few houses along the road.

One house, brown, had its garage door rolled open, vehicle in the driveway, but no lights on in the house. He read the house number and pulled in. The day was dark, it looked like people were home, yet the windows were all pitch black.

He sat in the vehicle for a moment. Nice maples in the yard, red sumac edging the property. There was a coffee mug on the deck, a fallen leaf sticking out.

The house looked brand new. Total opposite of his ramshackle place. He got out of the truck and walked towards the front door, checking everything out. He reached the door and knocked, waited. When no one came, he tried the doorbell. Still nothing.

He left the front door and walked to the garage, waiting for a light to wink on, or someone to appear in a window, wondering who the hell was out there.

No one came. He peered into the open garage at tools hung on a pegboard. There were shelves with boxes, sports gear, garden and lawn supplies, bags of blood meal and grass seed. The garage was unfinished — a doorway to the house was outlined, but not cut.

He noted two adult-sized bicycles, a child’s bike seat on the back of one of them. His gaze fell on a red tricycle. So there were kids. Husband, wife, at least two little ones.

He pulled his phone out and dialed Stokes back.

The younger detective answered straight away. “Yeah, boss?”

“Got a minute?”

“For you? I got five.”

Stokes was always trying to show off.

“Run a search for me on the address, see what you get.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stokes said. “Just a minute.” Rondeau heard Stokes pecking at the keys.

He walked to the shelves and peered at the sporting gear. Basketball, lacrosse sticks, golf clubs.

“Okay,” said Stokes. “Um, yeah, so, Hutchinson Kemp, and his wife Lily . . .”

“‘Hutchinson?’”

“That’s what it says. That’s the nurse’s husband. Guy’s got an IMDb profile . . .”

“What’s IMDb?”

“Ah, Internet Movie Database. Says he’s a producer, director, writer. Known as ‘Hutch.’ Did a documentary a few years back, a pretty big one, about the agricultural industry. Called Renaissance Man. Oh wait, no, that’s another one about horse racing . . . the agricultural doc was called Citizen Farmer. Not a very original title, sort of rip on Citizen Kane. Got an award, though.”

“So they’re living in boondocks because of her, maybe, an LPN at New Brighton Medical?”

“Yeah, sure, maybe.”

“Do me a favor, call them back. Let them know we’re looking into it.”

“Will do.” Stokes paused. “So, no one home then?”

“Don’t know.”

He hung up and walked out of the garage. He got a flashlight from his Chevy and circled the house. Around back, he played the beam over a long stack of firewood. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, even though the temperature was dropping. He came upon a side entrance and stopped, tried the doorknob. He hesitated, then opened it. “Hello? Anyone here?”

He froze when he heard voices. He shone the light in on a basement family room: two couches, a coffee table, TV in the corner. The TV was still on, the source of the noise. Someone was home after all. Feeling guilty, like a trespasser, he started away. But he stopped before closing the door and took another look. A coloring book lay open on the table, crayons strewn about. A bowl of half-eaten popcorn sat by one of the couches. “Hello?” No answer. Regardless of how strange it was, he shouldn’t be opening anyone’s door. He closed up and moved on.

Murder-suicide, he thought. It just came whistling out of the blue, the type of thing no one wanted to think about. The temptation to go back into the house was strong, but he needed to follow due process. He walked to the truck, grim ideas capering in his mind. A couple years back, a family in Alaska had disappeared. They’d left behind their vehicles, their clothing. Eventually their decomposing bodies were discovered less than a mile away. A handgun was found by the remains.

Another family had been recently found in the southwest, their vehicle located in the middle of the desert, bodies inside, everything incinerated. Police were fairly certain of murder-suicide there, too.

Sometimes it wasn’t murder-suicide, but something else. One family, missing for three years, was eventually seen on video crossing the border into Mexico on foot. Investigators said it looked like there was bad business involved. But at least there was a chance they were still alive.

Rondeau stopped in the front yard. The wind picked up and sent leaves scattering from the maples. In the dark, the leaves looked like bats in flight.

He beamed the light through the front windows. The light illuminated a framed photo hanging on the wall. There they were. Hutchinson Kemp and his wife Lily. Holding two little kids, a toddler and a baby, smiling brightly. Not that you could judge a book by a cover, but they looked like a good family. A nice family.