Never Coming Home Read online

  Chapter Six

  Lincoln and Darcy walked from the mall to the middle school, following the map that Hector provided, and it took them far longer than expected to make the trip. Devin’s house, the middle school, and the stream where the crime supposedly took place were in a scalene triangle pattern, and they’d taken the path directly to the school instead of the stream, which was marginally further from the mall.

  The sun had already gone down behind the foothills, but it was still light out. The middle school had let out for the day, although there were still some cars parked in the lot, probably belonging to underappreciated teachers who spent long evenings earning too-little pay. The clouds were awash in a fiery hue that complimented the blue behind them as a pleasant breeze cooled the formerly warm day. Yet despite the breeze, Lincoln was sweating beneath his suit, and he regretted agreeing to the trip.

  “Four miles sure feels a hell of a lot longer than it used to,” said Lincoln as they neared the middle school.

  “And Trent supposedly ran that whole way,” said Darcy, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s possible. It might’ve taken us over an hour,” he said as he glanced at his watch. “But you could run that a lot quicker.” He consulted his clip board and said, “The average person can run 8.3 miles an hour. Trent had 71 minutes…” He tried to do the math in his head, but that’d never been his strongest subject. “I’m pretty sure the prosecution is right, and the stream where they found Betty’s shoe is a little closer to the mall, that way.” He pointed down the street, not in the exact direction they’d walked from, but in the same vague area.

  “Trent wasn’t an athlete.” Darcy had a defensive tone, as if she were a teen arguing with her father about curfew. “He spent his free time playing videogames and smoking pot. I bet he never ran a mile in his life, let alone eight while killing a couple kids along the way.”

  “Fair enough, but we need to be pragmatic here, not emotional. Weigh the facts. And the fact is that it’s possible for a person to run from the mall to the middle school and back again in 71 minutes. And don’t forget that he didn’t kill the kids here,” said Lincoln as he motioned towards the middle school across the street. “If he did it, then he did it down by the stream or somewhere else along the trip home. That’d put him a little closer to the mall.”

  “Supposedly.”

  Lincoln pointed down the road and said, “The kids used to walk this way. Let’s go check out the stream.”

  Lincoln had lived in Boulder for years, but there were several parts of town that he’d never ventured through. Boulder’s nestled against the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, with towering hills visible from just about any clearing in town. The rising hills blocked the view of the mountains beyond, and gave the illusion that you could hike a single peak and view another valley on the other side. The hills were green, but sparsely wooded in this area, which made Lincoln wonder where the prosecutor thought Trent could murder two children without anyone noticing.

  As he looked down at the pavement, he reflected on how Betty and Devin had walked this path home every day after school. That made him think about the plight of Devin’s mother. He vaguely recalled her teary image on the local news, pleading for the safe return of her son before the revelation came of the discovery of the murder scene. “Imagine what it must’ve been like to wait for your kid to come home, and then they never show up. That sense of helplessness and fear. It must’ve been hell.”

  “Think about how bad the Klines had it. Their daughter disappeared and then their son got ripped away too. They lost both their kids in all this.”

  “True. I feel bad for them too.”

  “But?” asked Darcy as if expecting him to continue.

  “But nothing. I feel bad for them. Just like I said.”

  “No, you said it like you were about to add a ‘But’ in there.”

  “Well, let’s be honest, they had a pretty messed up kid.”

  “There you go,” said Darcy as if she was finally getting the admission she’d been seeking. “Let’s hear the truth, Dad. You think Trent’s guilty.”

  “I didn’t say that, but he clearly had some mental problems. His own journal proved that. He was into some weird stuff.”

  “Lots of teenagers are into weird stuff. It goes with the territory.”

  “Sure, but not some of the stuff he was into. If you wrote in your journal about drinking blood and worshipping Satan, you can damn well be sure I’d step in and do something about it.”

  “Who’s the one not being pragmatic now?”

  “Oh trust me, disciplining the hell out of your kid for wanting to drink human blood is the definition of pragmatism.”

  Darcy didn’t feel like arguing any more, and just shook her head in quiet disagreement. Their debate was good-humored, although Darcy seemed to take the case more personally than Lincoln expected.

  The middle school was in the center of a residential neighborhood, one block over from a busy street. The area was replete with mature trees whose canopies shaded the area, making the block more reminiscent of a Midwest suburb than the newer construction around where Lincoln lived. Fall had just begun to influence the green leaves to change color, dotting the canopies with hints of yellow and orange.

  The subdivision had been built in the late-seventies, and the squat, ranch-style houses still bore embellishments reminiscent of the time. The roofs were low-pitched and the curbside facades were wide with tall, floor to ceiling windows, often shrouded by overgrown coniferous bushes. Most of the lawns weren’t manicured, and instead bore the signs of the arid climate, patchy and bare in spots. And for being so close to a school, the area felt unexpectedly quiet, with only the sound of nearby traffic interrupting the chirping birds nesting above.

  “Did you like going to school there?” asked Lincoln as he looked at the building behind them.

  “I guess. I was in and out of the hospital so much back then. I think I remember more about the layout of the hospital than I do the school.”

  They reached the end of the block and crossed the street to a part of the walkway that curved along the bank of a stream that came down from the foothills. This area was busier than the neighborhood behind them, and several joggers passed, wires stretching from their earbuds, without an acknowledging wave or smile, their heads down and focused on the path ahead. There was a man walking two dogs, one a Chihuahua and the other a happy, slobbering bulldog.

  “This must’ve been where the kids were lured off the path. I saw the pictures of the spot down by the stream. It was pretty tore up. Whoever killed those kids must’ve been waiting here for them.” He glanced over the side of the bridge at the stream below.

  “Maybe,” said Darcy. “But don’t assume that’s what happened. Someone could’ve picked them up in a van along the way home too. And honestly, that seems more likely to me than the idea that Trent lured them off into the bushes and murdered them.”

  “True, but what about Betty’s shoe? They found it down there.”

  “Maybe she tried to escape,” said Darcy.

  Lincoln walked across the bridge and then stepped off the path, plunging his handsome oxfords into the spongy earth. The stream kept their surroundings more lush than the rest of the area, and there was plenty of vegetation along the banks. There were clear signs that children played here, along the muddy banks where the grass had been all but trampled to death. Lincoln pushed aside a low hanging tree branch and invited his daughter down to the stream, away from the sidewalk.

  “Somewhere out here,” said Lincoln, more to himself than in conversation as he looked around. The stream was down a short, slippery decline, hidden from the sidewalk by the thick vegetation. “He must’ve done it down here.”

  “With all the people running along the sidewalk up there? Not to mention the other kids walking home from school. You think Trent brought the kids down here, murdered them, and then somehow got them out of here without anyone s
eeing?”

  “Wouldn’t be easy, but it’s not impossible.”

  “We’ve got very different ideas about what is and isn’t possible.” Darcy turned in a circle, taking in their surroundings as the sound of passing cars melded with the babbling brook.

  Tires rumbled over a bridge, shaking metal slats and causing a tinny sound that caught Lincoln’s attention. He looked back towards where the road passed over the stream, and began to walk towards it. “Darcy, look over here.”

  She went with him, and they investigated the low bridge that the water passed under. The stream was shallow, and disappeared into the yawning, metal mouth under the bridge.

  “Do you think he could’ve stuffed them under here?”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Darcy, her tone thick with derision. “You think he ran here, killed two people, dragged them under this bridge right next to the path they would walk to get home from school, and then ran back to the mall to get his car, drove back here while Devin’s mother was walking back and forth screaming her son’s name, parked God-knows-where, and then dragged those bodies out of here and into the car without anyone seeing him?” She knew how ridiculous it sounded, and raised her eyebrows as she asked, “That’s really what you think happened?”

  “Not when you put it that way.”

  Darcy thought she’d won.

  Lincoln came up with the simplest answer, “He must’ve had a second vehicle.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Darcy, frustrated with him for still assuming Trent was guilty.

  “That would explain everything,” said Lincoln. “They found signs of a struggle down here. Maybe he parked up there along the road and waited for his sister on her way home. He got them to follow him down here where he got in a fight with them, knocked them out, and then dragged them back up into the car.”

  “They didn’t find any blood here.”

  “You’re right,” said Lincoln as he tried to think of the most plausible scenario. An idea came to him, and his serious expression softened as he said, “Maybe he never meant to kill anyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he just meant to scare his sister? Maybe he convinced the kids to come down here with him for one reason or another, like a wounded animal was here or something, and then pretended like he was going to kill Betty, but things went too far. He hurt her. He hurt her bad.” Lincoln was mimicking what he was trying to explain, even going so far as to get on his knees in the dirt with his hands wrapped around the throat of an invisible foe. He pointed over at Darcy and said, “But Devin was there. Devin was upset, and he was going to go get help, but Trent said they should get in his car and go to the hospital. But instead of going to the hospital, he drove up into the foothills, out by the shed where they found the blood. At that point, Betty was already dead, and Trent didn’t have any choice but to kill Devin too. He left the bodies there and then rushed back to the mall so he could cover his tracks.”

  “And when did he change his clothes?” asked Darcy.

  Lincoln responded with a puzzled look.

  “How could he fight and kill two people without getting mud and blood on himself? Look how muddy you are. Trent walked out of that mall in the same clothes he came in with, and he wasn’t covered in mud.”

  Lincoln conceded with a plaintive nod. “True.”

  “Not to mention this whole theory of yours requires him getting access to a second car, which never came up at trial. According to the prosecution, he killed both of those kids here and then left their bodies as he ran back to the mall.”

  “It doesn’t make much sense. That’s not to say I agree Trent’s innocent, but I can’t imagine it working the way the prosecution said. We’re missing something here.” He chewed on his lip as he surveyed the scene, trying to think of the most likely scenario. He spoke as if admitting guilt, “There had to be a second person. It’s the only way this makes sense. If Trent did it, then someone picked him up at the mall and brought him here.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  Lincoln checked his watch and said, “Next we call a cab, because I’m not walking all the way back to the mall.”

  “You know what I mean. What’s the next step in your investigation?”

  “Hector’s working on getting us access to the police file and some pictures of the evidence they gathered. Bentley’s going to check that stuff out. I figure we should pour over that a bit before trying to contact anyone involved.”

  “When does the site go live?”

  Lincoln hadn’t considered that as of yet, and shrugged, “Tonight, as long as Bentley has everything sorted.”

  “I’ll call the girls and see if they can start working on getting stuff together for the donors. I’ve got to warn you, though, once this site goes live there’s a good chance you’re going to get more attention than you bargained for. There are a lot of people who want to know the truth about what happened here.” She held out her arms as if offering the very earth they stood upon to him.

  It was striking to think that the very spot where she stood might’ve been where her friend had lost her life a decade earlier. It turned his stomach, and brought back a host of bad memories about the trials Darcy had survived.

  The sobering truth was that he got his child back, but the Klines and Harcourts hadn’t been so lucky.

  Lincoln and Darcy left the crime scene and walked over to a busier area of the city. Lincoln wanted to stop in at a bar, but Darcy insisted they have coffee instead. They ordered iced Americanos and sat at an outside table where they waited for the cab to come.

  The sun was finally losing its zeal, lost behind the foothills as the gathering darkness won out to the east. Traffic was heavy as people left work to head home, clogging the streets with tired motorists who’d just survived yet another Monday, but had four more days left to go. Boulder was a college town, and during the fall there were far more people at the local shops. The city was changing by the day, catering more to the wealthy than the hippies who once dominated the streets.

  Lincoln looked at his daughter, astounded by how beautiful she was. She reminded him of her mother.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” said Darcy with an embarrassed grimace.

  “Can’t I look at you?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m just happy to get to be with you. We should spend more time together.”

  “You need a girlfriend.”

  Lincoln let out a sharp laugh and then said, “That’s not going to change how much I love my daughter. I’ve got bad news for you, kiddo, I’m still going to look at you all doe-eyed and want to spend time with you even if I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “How’re things going on the dating front? Did you sign up for online dating like I told you to?”

  The conversation had turned on him, and he wasn’t happy with the subject. “No, and I’m not going to. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “How is it okay for you to always ask about my love life, but I don’t get to ask about yours?”

  “That’s the way it goes. I’m your Dad. It’s my business to know as much as I can about your life, and you don’t get to know anything about mine. It’s in the rulebook somewhere.”

  “Oh is that right?” asked Darcy in good humor before spinning her coffee so that the ice rattled before she took a drink. Lincoln assumed the topic was finished, but Darcy soon continued, “It’s just that I want to see you happy. You know?”

  “Thanks for the sentiment.” He looked up the street, past the traffic waiting at the light, and wondered what was taking the cab so long.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Stopping me from what?”

  “What’s stopping you from moving on? You and Mom broke up a long time ago.”

  Lincoln gave his daughter an icy stare. “Let’s not go there.”

  “Too late,” said Darcy. “We’re already there. I know you tried to work things out with her for a while, but that
ship sailed. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just trying to help. Nothing would make me happier than to know there was a good woman keeping an eye on you. Someone needs to. You’re doing a cruddy job of keeping an eye on yourself.”

  “That’s enough, Darcy. I’m serious.” He hated the tone he used when he admonished her, and regretted it immediately, but this wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.

  He still regarded his divorce as his greatest failure, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take to get over. All that mattered was that the wounds were still fresh, and talking about it would only make things worse.

  They sat in silence for a while, and Lincoln was just about to apologize when their cab arrived. He didn’t want to bring it up to her on the ride back, and resolved to do it once they got to the mall, but by that time the conversation felt like it’d been laid to rest.

  Darcy drove him home, and they discussed banal topics along the way, conversing like strangers getting to know one another instead of like father and daughter. He should’ve apologized before saying goodbye, but he just kissed her on the cheek and watched her drive away instead. Then he headed to the nearest bar.

  Arthur

  He threw the last of his victim into the water, and the weighted bag made a deep, resonant splash that echoed across the placid expanse. It was late, and the water looked like oil as it reflected the night sky, the starlight undaunted by clouds or pollution of any kind.

  This was a beautiful place for a burial.

  He was nearly finished now. Next Arthur would dump out the bloody water from the coolers and then search for an automated gas station car wash. He’d prefer to find a self-serve, manual car wash so that he could spray out the coolers, but he doubted there were any open this late at night.

  Arthur hadn’t planned on being away from home today, and his trek would put him behind in his work. There was a package waiting for him at a post office in Loveland that he’d meant to pick up today, and he’d have to go out first thing in the morning to get it. He was running low on Morning Glory seeds that he needed to make the LSD he sold online in the deep web market, Bluebird Cthulu, where buyers purchased his goods anonymously using web-based currency. The quantity of seeds he needed would raise suspicion if purchased from a standard retailer, and he also wanted to keep costs down, so he created a false wholesale account based in Kansas where he routed his packages through an automated distributor that allowed him to forward mail to whatever address he specified. These extra steps ensured his safety.

  After getting the seeds, he would need to take on the laborious task of extracting the ergine, or d-lysergic acid, necessary to make his drug. The reason his product was in demand was because he took efforts to purify the psychedelic, allowing users to avoid the sometimes crippling nausea associated with the drug. His product wasn’t cheap, but it was considered premium, and he had a good reputation on Bluebird Cthulu. His customers were willing to pay for the best, and he was determined to provide it.

  His work kept him living as comfortably as he desired, and Arthur often wondered how long it would be before the corner hustlers lost their footing in the drug trade, replaced by more savvy dealers like him who were taking advantage of the internet age. Few of the dealers he knew who worked through the deep web marketplaces ever had trouble with police, but every day the news talked about yet another drug ring bust happening on some corner.

  Idiots.

  A man could get rich simply by being smart and careful. There was no need to risk getting arrested for dealing on a street corner.

  Arthur’s phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket to see if he’d gotten a message or a call. It was an email, sent from a web crawler that constantly searched for keywords to alert him about subjects he wanted to keep up to date on. He had hundreds of these crawlers out there, but the one that popped up on his phone caused him to hold his breath.

  It was about Betty Kline.

  Arthur quickly opened the message and followed the link. He cursed the slow connection as his phone tried to bring up the website. It seemed to take forever to load, and then suddenly Betty’s face was staring at him.

  He’d been afraid this would happen. As the ten year anniversary of Betty Kline’s disappearance neared, websites were bound to publish new stories ruminating on the real murderer. But this was different. Someone was launching a new investigation using a crowd-funding site called IndieStarters.

  This was yet another would-be Private Investigator hoping to make a name for himself by digging up a story that’d earned national attention at one point. It made Arthur furious.

  He read through the rudimentary site, examining the details, and each second he grew more annoyed. In the past he’d ignored the attempts of the Kline family to hire private investigators, certain they would never find anything new, but if he was going to start hunting again he needed to be extra careful. After the near miss at the restaurant, he was scared. He couldn’t ignore this new threat.

  He would have to put a stop to it.