TEN
The storm was angry.
Billy Bennett lived on a rundown farm 25 miles from London. It had one primary exit, off a small country lane near a village called Felmont. But there was also a second road, a small dirt track that wound through the woods and eventually fed out onto a tiny lane that was 15 miles away from the nearest main road.
It was this dirt track that I took, slowly meandering down it in the pouring rain 45 minutes after leaving Atkinson’s house. On two occasions, I felt the back tires lose traction, spinning in the mud. As the farm came into view — a few flat fields and a hillside filled with corn — I saw a gate up ahead. It was simple steel gate, bolted to posts. A Master Lock hung from a chain in the center.
I hated the idea of leaving my car because I was pretty sure getting it back out of this road without getting stuck in the increasing mud would be next to impossible. But I had come this far, and if my hunch was right there was no going back.
I got out and gave myself a moment to adjust to the rain. It was at its heaviest now, a full storm cascading from above like the heavens were throwing everything they had at me in a last ditch effort. Even though it was daytime, black clouds cast shadowy swathes across the countryside and rumbles of dissention shook the air. I steadied myself, pulled up my hood, and then climbed the rain-slicked gate. I slid over the other side and looked up to the farm, yearning for the comforting weight of a weapon.
I trudged up the rest of the road, and as I came around a slight bend, I could see Billy’s house. It sat about 50 yards from the base of the corn field. The lay of the land was not in my favor. I‘d planned on Billy not being home, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. If he was in, he’d have a very good chance of spotting me coming up the road, even through the dismal weather.
That meant that I’d have to head into the woods and sneak up on the eastern edge of the property. I left the road and started walking into the bare forest. Sickly trees all around gave me some cover from the rain, but not much. I wondered if it had been an orchard in another lifetime. My shoes were already plastered in mud and dead leaves, and I could feel the weight of it with every step I took.
The ground started to drop as I neared the edge of the property. The place was ramshackle and looked more like a junkyard than a farm as I got closer to the house. I could see a shed several yards away from Billy’s house. There were also two broken-down trucks and an ancient, long-faded tractor. I headed for the shed, planning to use it for cover as I snuck up on his house.
With my eyes on the buildings, I misjudged the lay of the land.
“Shit!”
My foot suddenly slipped, and before I knew it, my ankle was on fire, and I was on the ground, sliding quickly. I tried to correct myself, reaching out for a nearby tree, but that only resulted in causing me to tumble. I felt mud slide down my back, and my right leg was momentarily pinned beneath me.
I came to a stop at the base of a small hill, breathing heavily. Waiting for the shock of what had just happened to pass, I managed to get to my feet, clawing at the small hill behind me. As I stood up, I realized that what I was seeing was not a hill, but some sort of mound.
I thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be a collection of debris and detritus from rainwater washing down the hill over the years.
But then I saw a white shred of fabric, barely peeking through the mud. Hesitantly, I reached down and pulled at it. It would not come free. I set to digging around the area, revealing more of the white fabric and then struck something solid.
I stopped in horror, realizing what I was looking at. A bone jutted from the dank ground.
“My God,” I muttered, staring at the jagged piece of human remains.
I nearly started to dig again and then saw two other similar mounds to my right. I was literally digging into the past and turning up a world of death and pain.
I could have kept digging, but I sensed that time was slipping away. When this was all over, I’d call the police and let them do the proper search.
My ankle throbbed as I carefully made my way to the edge of the yard and made a limped dash for the shed. A small door was situated along the side. I barely peeked in, too concerned with getting to the house and confronting Billy Bennett. I had no gun, no weapon…I had no idea how I was going to subdue him.
The smart move would have been to arrive with backup or a weapon. But when did I ever do the smart thing lately? Blind determination was my idiotic calling card and there was more than my life at stake here.
I walked away from the door but then froze. I took a step back and peeked through the thin slat between the door and the warped frame. There were several burlap sacks and a few old milk crates piled in the corners. I also saw several shovels, an axe, and a pitchfork.
I pushed the creaking door open and walked inside.
The rain fell in drips through the ceiling, but I was scarcely aware of this. Instead, my eyes went to the milk crates. There were some children’s toys and even old notebooks in them, stacked thick to the top, some dated from decades ago. I flipped through the most recent one I came to. It did not take me long to get a glimpse into who Billy Bennett was…and a certainty that if he had not taken Jack Ellington, the bastard was probably guilty of a lot more. What I read was sickening.
…and he screamed with the cloth over his mouth and it sounded like some weak little engine…
…surprised when his ribs cracked under my weight and you should have SEEN the light go out in his eyes…
…the boards need washing again form all the blood. I saw a fingernail there yesterday…a little chipped fingernail like half a moon…
…because I don’t know if the stupid boy was dead when I started to undress him and…
I read quickly, trying not to dwell on the words too much. In the margins, Billy had also drawn crude sketches of genitals and other body parts that made me shudder. Then I saw one line in the oldest book that sent a sharp chill up my spine:
He’s a boring, goody-two-shoes-arsehole, but Henry loves me. He’s a good father, I guess, but even he doesn’t understand the things in my head. I’m sorry, Henry….
The realization threatened to split my head open right where the hangover had started the job.
***
I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I continued to the burlap sacks. There were two of them, neither of which were tied closed. I started to feel uneasy. It was almost like this sicko wanted to get caught. I wondered how long all of this stuff had been out here, hidden by only a paltry wooden door.
One of the sacks contained nothing more than old dry pine needles. I disregarded this one and looked into the next. An odd assortment of clothes were inside, as well as a watch, a pair of sunglasses and a pair of children’s shoes. I searched through the clothes, touching them like they might bite me.
I came to a white tee shirt and was nearly slapped in the face with understanding.
On the front of the shirt was the name of a band: The Who.
The last shirt Jack Ellington had been seen wearing.
That was enough for me. Hell, I wasn’t even going to bother with going into Bennett’s house. Someone else could play hero. I was going to head back to my car and call the cops on my cellphone right now. I turned and stepped through the door, the rain still coming down.
That’s when I heard it.
A cry cut through the pouring rain. Immediately I flattened myself against the corner of the shed. Peering around the side I eyed the farmhouse, wondering if I had imagined it.