Secret Hollows Part 28

Sighing, she picked up the phone on the table next to her. "I don't want to return a call," she said. "And I hope I've waited long enough that the news won't come until Monday."

He patted her shoulder. "No putting off bad news," he said. "Get to it and I'll put together a wee snack for you to enjoy after."

Ian left the room and Mary glanced up at the clock. Four o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Please Alex, don't be available, she prayed as she pressed the b.u.t.ton on her phone to return his call. After two rings, he answered.

"Alex Boettcher."

c.r.a.p!

"Hi Alex, it's Mary," she said, "just returning your call."

"Where have you been?" he asked. "I've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."

"Oh, really?" she lied. "My phone must be acting up again. Sorry."

"Well, I wanted to let you know the results from the DNA testing have come back," he said. "We have a close match in the system, but for now it's a dead end."

Mary breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Really? Why?" she asked.

"Well, we got a partial match, but it's from a guy who died a couple of years ago," Alex said. "A firemen from Freeport. Mike Richards."

Mary's heart sank. "So, Richards isn't our guy?" she asked, hating herself for acting dumb.

"No, he was too young," Alex answered. "He would have been about the same age as the victims."

"Oh, so what's our next step?"

"Since it wasn't an exact match, we can a.s.sume that it probably is someone related to Richards," he said. "And the Lena Police Chief is a Richards, so he can probably point us in the right direction. Maybe we're looking for a cousin or something."

"Or something," Mary muttered.

"Oh, I got the forensic diving crew," he said. "And they are willing to go down to the lake tomorrow, about noon."

"On a Sunday?" she asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Well, they're all volunteers, so weekends work better for them," he explained. "And I've contacted Ronny's parents. They've agreed to be there, too."

"Oh, that must have been hard," she said, her heart breaking. "How did the conversation go?"

"Uncomfortable, stilted, painful," Alex said. "They've been waiting for this call for twenty years, and I'm sure they would have preferred one that claimed their son was still alive."

"Well, at least they won't be waiting another twenty years for a phone call," she said. "At least this will help with closure."

"Yeah, they sounded like great people on the phone," he said. "I can't imagine what they've been going through all these years."

"Neither can I," she agreed.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Alex added. "I've got those special investigators willing to meet with you at the lake tomorrow morning to extract the evidence from the tree. I figured it would work better to have everything done at the same time. That way, if we attract attention, it will be too late for anyone to do anything."

"Thanks, Alex, that's a perfect plan," she said. "We can be there by eight."

"Good," he said. "And now, I'm going to reread this entire case, so I'll probably be up all night. Do me a favor and bring a couple of your Diet Pepsi's with you tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm going to need them."

This sounds like a great opportunity to stall an investigation, she thought.

"Sounds like you've got a full plate," Mary said. "Do you want me to follow up with the Lena Police?"

"Hey, that would be great, especially since you know more about the case than I do. Be sure to bring Bradley along to make it official," he said. "I have a feeling I'll be at the lake all day tomorrow and I've got to be in court on Monday."

"Sure, yeah, I can go meet with him on Monday," she supplied. "Soon enough?"

"Yeah, it isn't like the murderer is going to skip town in the meantime."

"On Monday I will be going into Lena with the DNA information and meeting with your uncle," Mary said. "Mike, the DNA was a close match to the DNA they had on file for you. It's not going to take them long to connect your father."

"What the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do?" he asked. "It's my father, Mary. Am I supposed to stand by and do nothing?"

She thought about all of the times he had stepped in and saved her life. Thought of all the things he'd done to help her. Thought about how much she owed him. And although this went against everything she was raised to do, she felt she owed him a chance to decide how he wanted to handle things.

"Well, I can wait until later in the week before I go to your Uncle," she suggested.

Mike floated across Mary's living room. "What? And give them a chance to flee the country? Really, Mary, do you want to be arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal?" he asked.

"I won't be," she said, "I'm just giving you a chance to decide what you think is right. Because after that, I have to do what I know is right."

He turned to face her. "And is what you think is right and what I think is right so different?"

She shrugged. "Right now, I think it is. But, I also understand that if this were my parents, things wouldn't be so clear cut."

"Don't you think Alex is going to figure out something's going on?" he asked. "Alex doesn't sound like a fool. He'd figure it out, Mary. And even if you weren't arrested, your reputation would be ruined."

"I don't care about my reputation," Mary shouted.

Ian came down the stairs at that moment. "Really now? You're thinking about ruining your reputation?" he asked. "And who's the lucky fellow?"

Only silence greeted his comment and he looked from Mary to Mike and shook his head. "So, who's going to tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mary said.

"I think my dad killed Timmy," Mike said at the same time.

Ian blindly stepped forward and sat on the arm of the couch. "I couldna heard you right," he said slowly. "Certainly not your da."

"I followed him out to the barn, after you left," he said. "He had a place in the back of the barn, a hiding place. Timmy's fishing pole was locked away in there."

"Why would he do that?" Ian asked.

Mike remembered watching his dad pull the fishing pole out of the locker and felt sick all over again.

"Probably just a souvenir," Mike said in disgust, "because he had to give all the other ones away to frame Emil."

"And you're thinking about ruining your reputation in what way?" Ian asked Mary.

She shrugged. "Nothing really. And it doesn't matter."

Mike floated across the room to stand next to her. "She wants to give me time to warn my parents and have them skip town."

"Warn them about what?" Ian asked.

"The DNA test came back," Mary explained. "The only person on file that was a close match was a Freeport fireman who died a couple of years ago. A fireman named Mike Richards."

"Ah," Ian said, lifting his eyebrows and looking directly at Mike. "I see. So, by Monday they'll put it all together and come knocking on your father's door."

He stood and walked over to Mike. "And what about Timmy and the rest of the boys?" Ian asked. "Do they get a say in the matter?"

"Ian, he's my dad," Mike pleaded.

"Aye, and if he really did this, he's not the man you think he is," Ian said. "You heard what those boys said; you heard what he did to them. Is that really your da?"

A flood of memories immediately came to mind; his dad on Christmas morning, he and his dad fishing at the break of dawn, his dad teaching him how to ride a bike, his dad embracing him when he graduated from college.

And then he thought about Ronny. About the small skeletal hands wrapped around the rope that tethered his body to the bottom of the lake.

"I don't want to believe it, but I guess so," Mike said sadly and faded away.

Chapter Forty-eight.

A cold, pounding winter rain was falling on the ground outside the farmhouse. Snow was melting and puddles were forming. The lights in the house were glowing warm against the dark and cold of the night, but Mike hesitated to enter.

He had spent several hours that afternoon with Timmy and Ronny. He had tried to convince himself that it was just to see how they were doing. But, he knew, deep inside, that it was more to convince himself that they were fine where they were; caught between this life and the next. They had each other; they seemed to be having fun. What was the harm in letting them continue as ghosts?

But he knew they didn't belong here. They belonged beyond this life, in a place where the horrors that had befallen them would be wiped away. A place where there was peace and safety and love. A place where they could be with loved ones who had already pa.s.sed beyond and wait for loved ones who had yet to graduate from this life to the next.

So he stood, a phantom in the pouring rain, working up enough courage to confront his father and force him to turn himself in. He couldn't make Mary do it; he had to do it himself.

Taking a deep breath, he floated across the barnyard and up the stairs of the back porch. His mother was at the sink, washing the dishes and his father was next to her, drying them.

How many times had he witnessed that scene? How many times had he thought his parents had the perfect marriage? How many more lies had his dad told?

He watched his dad put down the dish towel and walk to the coat rack near the door. He pulled on his ch.o.r.e coat and then added a slicker on top of it. Then he pulled on knee high rubber boots. He walked back across the kitchen and put his arms on Alice's shoulders and turned her towards him, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

She blushed and smiled, and turned back to the dishes.

Allen walked out the back door into the rain.

Mike stepped in front of him and Allen walked through him, pausing for a moment and looking around afterwards. Then Allen continued down the stairs, across the barnyard and to the barn. Mike followed him, recreating the same path he had followed just the night before. Once again his father went to the locker and pulled out the fishing pole.

"I can't believe you killed those boys," Mike said aloud.

His dad froze in place and slowly looked around the room.

"Hearing ghosts, dad?" Mike asked. "Well, you d.a.m.n well ought to be hearing ghosts. You ought to be haunted by them every day of your life."

Allen grasped the pole tighter and peered around the room.

"How could you do this?" Mike screamed. "How the h.e.l.l could you kill those little boys? They were my age, dad! They were my friends! Were you thinking about killing me every time you were killing them?"

His dad stumbled backwards and nearly fell. With the fishing pole in his hand, he hurried through the darkened barn with Mike floating after him.

"No, you can't run away from this," Mike yelled. "You can't pretend this didn't happen."

Allen was in a half-run now, anxious to get out of the barn.

Mike raced ahead of him and slammed the barn door closed. Allen froze in his steps and stared at the door for a moment.

"This is stupid," he said. "It's just the wind. I'm just spooking myself."

"No, dad," Mike said, from just behind him. "I'm spooking you."

Allen felt the brush of cold air on his neck and shivers ran all the way through his body. This time, he didn't pretend. This time he ran for the door, pushed it open and stumbled into the pouring rain. He splashed across the muddy farmyard to his pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Pulling open the door, he stashed the fishing pole in the compartment behind the seats. As he put the seat back in place, Mike knocked the seat back down. Allen paused and then pushed the seat back in place, but a moment later, Mike hit it again.

Allen walked backwards, a few steps away from the car and Mike slammed the door shut.

"Got to be the wind," Allen said, staring at the door. "That's all, it's got to be the wind."

"Yeah, Dad," Mike shouted, "well things aren't always what they seem. You just taught me that lesson."

Mike yanked opened the truck door, flipped on the lights and then slammed the door shut. "Now, blame that on the wind."

Allen just stood in the driveway, rain pouring down over him, soaking his face and pelting his slicker. He stared at the truck for a few moments. "I...I don't understand," he whispered.

Mike opened the truck door, flicked off the lights and closed it again. "Go inside, Dad," he said.

And, as if he had heard him, Allen turned around and hurried into his home.