All the Dark Places(74)
Twenty-nine years ago, John Castleberry, a middle-aged farmer, had been out on an ATV, checking his crops, when he saw a blue car parked behind the abandoned house next to his fields. He’d written the town every year for ten years asking for the house to be torn down, as it was a hazard, but some official would write him back and say that they were trying to locate the owner, who’d moved to Florida years earlier. That was all Mr. Castleberry would hear about it until he wrote again the next year. But that hot July day, he saw a young man leave through the back door and climb into the vehicle. After the man had pulled away, John, fearful that teenagers were causing trouble inside the dilapidated house again, decided to investigate. Mr. Castleberry returned to his house and got his car and went back. He didn’t find any teenagers, but instead heard a child’s whimper coming from the cellar. Despite the statewide search that had been ongoing for me and Indie, Mr. Castleberry was shocked when he found two little girls locked below. That was how I heard the story.
But I remember how the sunshine blinded my eyes when he carried me out, and the smell of his work shirt—dirt and sweat and tobacco. I clung to him and buried my face in his shoulder. I was tired and hungry and frightened.
He deposited me on his wife Margaret’s ample lap in the passenger seat of their old Dodge and drove me to the police station. I didn’t know why he left Indie behind, and I tried to tell him that she was still down there, but the words wouldn’t come. Mrs. Castleberry hugged me tight and murmured that I was safe now.
Every year I send them a Christmas card and get one from them. They are the only people from back home, besides family, who know where I am. Their yearly Christmas card is all I hear from them, just enough to let me know they’re still there, still thinking about me, and it makes me feel safe somehow. They must be well into their eighties, and I dread the time that will come when the cards stop.
CHAPTER 56
Rita
AFTER CONFERRING WITH SHERIFF SKINNER, WE HEAD TO THE Mountclair Tavern to catch a bite before heading back to Graybridge. The place isn’t busy, a little early for dinner or drinks, but there are a couple of guys at the bar, drafts in front of them, engaged in conversation with Sid the bartender.
The waitress comes over, a smile on her face, probably grateful for something to do. She’s young, a messy bun atop her head. She asks us for our drink order, all the while glancing at “FBI” printed on Joe’s and Agent Metz’s jackets. Her round blue eyes then wander to my badge and service weapon as I stand and strip off my coat. She scurries away but returns promptly with a New England IPA for each of us.
“What can I get you guys to eat?” she asks, a slight tremble in her voice. After writing down our orders on her notepad, she starts to walk away, but spins back around.
“Are you here about Annalise?” she asks Joe.
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“Everybody knew her.” She puts a hand on her hip, glances over her shoulder. “I don’t know if I should say anything. I mean, I don’t want to overreact or get anybody in trouble.”
Chase fumbles his phone out of his pocket.
“You know something that might help us?” I ask.
“Probably not.” She blows out a breath, scattering her bangs. “I wasn’t here. I wasn’t working the night she disappeared, but something kinda strange happened before that.”
I take out my notebook. “Why don’t you tell us anyway.”
“Okay.”
Chase says, “You mind if I record you?” He holds up his phone.
She glances at Joe then back at me. “No. I guess not.”
We have her state her name, which is Melissa Haskins, the date, yada, yada.
“Well, a couple of days before Annalise went missing—”
“What day was that?” Joe asks.
“Um. The second, I guess.”
“You sure?”
She nods. “Yes. I went for a run after work.”
“What time?”
“Just before dark. My mom told me not to go because it was getting late. But I said I’d hurry. I try to run four times a week. Well, I ran my usual route from my house to the dry goods store and back. It’s about three and a half miles.”
“Where’s your house?” Joe asks.
She tilts her chin. “If you turn right out of the parking lot, opposite direction of Annalise’s, go about three quarters of a mile and turn right again on Midline Road, that’s where I live.”
“Okay. You’re running. When did it actually get dark? How far into your run?”
“By the time I got to the store and turned around, it was getting pretty dark.”
“How dark?” I ask.
“Not quite all the way, but getting there.” She bites her lips. “Well, I was on my road when I heard a car. Someone was behind me, driving really slow.”
I lean forward. “Did he stop?”
“No. But he was definitely following me, going super slow.” Her eyes start to tear up.
“Then what happened, Melissa?”
“I jumped off the asphalt and ran on the dirt and picked up the pace.”
“Did you look back at the vehicle?”
“Just briefly. I was scared.”
“What kind of vehicle was it?” I ask.