13
The Site

CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN

Maggie O’Bryan spelled her name with alphabet noodles from her soup. They stuck to the table like gummy charms. Crossword with lunch. Using her M, Robbie spelled Mortshoe. The referee was busy doing the dishes.

“No fair,” Maggie howled. “What’s a mortshoe?”

Robbie shot her a look of disdain.

“It’s the big metal thing that holds the milker; it’s in the barn, stoopie pants.”

“I never heard daddy say that word,” she frowned and ate her name, dismissing the false entry of mortshoe. “Let’s play hide-the-carrot.” She waved her vegetable under her brother’s nose as if to lure him.

“That’s a stupid game. Besides, the underside of the table is already crammed with vegetables. You’re such a baby.” He skillfully hurled the ultimate insult, and it hit its mark.

Amelia watched her children. They were hunched over the table, having an animated discussion that seemed to involve a carrot. She washed a mug, scrubbing at the stubborn coffee ring. It seemed she was constantly washing something. If she wasn’t scrubbing dishes, then dirt off Mike’s boots, or Jell-O off the sofa. Her world was never-ending drudgery. Through the window, she could see Mike’s blue hat crossing over the top of the corn.

He was a farmer, but also a regular at the bar, always with a beer in hand. Hard farm work and life’s monotony had worn him down. Mike’s energy was poured into the land, and what was left was drowned in beer. Still, Amelia felt a spark of hope when the tractor rolled into the yard at day’s end. The night seemed to promise romance, until John Barleycorn dashed those hopes.

“We’re done!” the children shouted in unison, running through the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind them. They reached the yard before she could respond; their legs churned like whirligigs.

She raised the kitchen window. “Don’t go past the yellow tape!” Unsure of whether they heard her, she turned to the task at hand. A mountain of laundry needed sorting.

Maggie took Robbie’s hand. He did so reluctantly because she was the Dead Body Finder, a title that would earn her respect for at least a week. The fence was brightly decorated with saffron ribbon.

“DO NOT CROSS . . . BY ORDER OF POLICE,” Robbie read. He hoisted himself over as if the sign read . . . EXCEPT ROBBIE. Maggie scrambled after him. Though he was reluctant to set a precedent, Robbie helped her to the ground.

“You’d better be carefuller, Maggie. Ma’s gonna whip ya if you wreck another dress.”

“Carefuller is not a word. It’s like mortshoe.” And on that note, she sprinted for the woods.

The field lay fallow. Their dad will plant sugar beets next year. The children hugged the tree line, unnerved by thoughts of a body on their farm—a body with real hair.

“Look, it’s Bite’Ems wrappers.” Robbie dug through the poison ivy patch scattered with colorful papers. “Fly’s been out here.”

“How do you know?”

“Cause, stupid,” Robbie said. “Everyone in town knows Fly’s partial to Bite’Ems. He leaves a trail of wrappers everywhere he goes—like Hansel and Gretel.”

“They left crumbs.”

“You’re a dumbbell,” he replied. Then, adding insult to injury, he said, “You’re a girl and girls are all stupid.”

Robbie collected some of the pink waxy wrappers and put them in his pocket.

“I’m not as stupid as you! You’re digging in the sumac, and Ma’s gonna dose you with pink lotion.”

He ignored her. “Look, a free decoder ring coupon. And I got enough wrappers to send for it!”

The rumble of a motor drew Maggie’s attention. “Someone’s coming. Pa’s gonna whup you good, Robbie O’Bryan.”

“He can’t, because this is evidence,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m Colombo.”

“Go ahead, be him. Dad says he’s got a glass eyeball. You got a fake eyeball, Robbie?” Her voice was sweet, but she was holding a sharp stick.

“You’re gonna get it. I’m telling you. Do you want to go stick some frogs?”

A police car pulled into the two-track. The kids ducked behind a bush and peeked out; Barney Deters spilled out one side, while Hank climbed out the other. The back seat revealed a new guy and a pretty lady.

“Duck, it’s the cops,” Robbie shoved her. “Let’s pretend they’re really the killers and we’re hiding, okay?”

Maggie nodded solemnly and tightened her grip on her stick. Hank and Hallie stepped over the chain and walked toward them. Barney and Steve stayed close behind. Seeing the children crouched near the trees, they decided to leave them alone for now.

“Hallie,” Barney muttered. “You stick around here. Keep an eye on those gosh darn kids for me. Steve, keep those news hounds away. No offense, Miss Ruben.”

“None taken,” she smiled.

“I’m going to take Hank with me,” he added. Hank adjusted his holster, just in case.

The two veteran cops walked side by side, scanning for any overlooked clues between the road and the clearing where the body lay. They examined for bent grass, fibers, or any other unusual items. When he reached the top of the knoll, Hank called out.

“Look. The grass has been tamped down. Our perp came through here. We can forget about getting any good footprints back on the road. We never took castings or a single photo, and then those blamed reporters stomped all over the place.”

Barney wiped a dirty handkerchief across his forehead.

“What the hell? We could ditch our shoes anyway. Of course, that means all the trash scattered around looks like the Oregon Trail. Half the county trampled through our crime scene. We look like country bumpkins.”

“Face it, Barney, we are bumpkins. The prints near the burn barrel are intact,” Hank was moving again, his eyes sweeping the terrain. “Look, Barn. A condom.” The shriveled balloon was old. “I think I parked out here with Edie Banks one time. It could be . . .”

Barney covered his ears. “Too much information, you son-of-a-bitch. And don’t pick it up. It might be contaminated with some nasty social disease.”

“We’d better take it anyway,” Hank said. “We’ve made enough unforced errors.” He used tweezers to drop the evidence into a plastic bag. It probably had nothing to do with their scene, but you couldn’t be too careful.

The men searched the area they had explored the day before, reaching the clearing without finding anything new. Hank used a trowel to scoop soil from the makeshift grave into a plastic tub. The debris revealed nothing important, just a few tubers and some root fibers.

Barney collected debris from the burn barrel: shards of bone from a dinner of pork chops, bread wrappers, and shiny tatters of a magazine that failed to burn.

Plastic sheeting covered the footprints: a man’s shoe and a bare foot. Hank pulled back the tarp, took photos of the prints, and then poured quickset plaster of Paris into the shallow marks.

A silvery gleam in the soil caught his eye. He pulled out a silver disc hanging on a chain. The tag was dull and well-worn. On its face, in tiny letters, was stamped “Property of US Government E-20028.”

“Looks like some kind of dog tag, Barn.” Hank dangled it from his tweezers. “Not like my Army tags, though.”

“Don’t look familiar to me.” Barney shook his head. “May be important. Let’s not lose it.”

Finally giving in to exhaustion, the men gathered their evidence and headed back to the cruiser. Suddenly, the air filled with shrieks, and the men ran. Well, Hank ran while Barney tried to. Robbie and Maggie were wailing like banshees.

“Help, help!” Robbie shouted.

Steve held Robbie tightly, and the boy flailed like a fish on a line. The young cop also had a solid grip on Maggie, but she kept fighting back.

“These hooligans really scared me.” He had his hands full.

“We were playing Colombo,” Maggie wailed. “I didn’t mean to poke him with my stick.”

“Yeah, we were just playing,” Robbie sniffed.

Steve brought them back to solid ground, and the children ran toward Hank and Barney, whom they recognized.

“Wanna see my evidence?” Robbie begged the Chief.

“Sure, Robbie, what do you have?” Barney rested a gnarled hand on Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie grabbed Chief Deters by the hand and pulled him along. Barney waded through the brush behind the boy. Robbie retrieved a bag and pulled out a handful of candy wrappers.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Barney said. “Where’d you find these?”

“Right here, Chief Deters. There’s more,” declared Robbie. “Look.”

Barney followed him to a patch of poison ivy. The crushed leaves surrounded the massive tree. Candy wrappers were embedded in the ivy like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

“Fly must have one hell of a rash!” Barney noted.

Back at the car, Hank tossed the evidence bag with the medallion to Steve.

“Guess it wasn’t a bust after all. Look at this. What do you make of it?”

Steve caught the parcel. Hank watched the blood drain from the rookie’s face.

How in the world did he get this? Steve’s heart pounded like a trip hammer, but luckily Hank couldn’t hear that.

“What is it, Hank? Some religious item?”

“Maybe, if it’s from the Church of Uncle Sam. It says Property of US Government,” Hank said.

Steve shrugged and threw the bag back. Hank watched the young man—his hands shook as if he were struck with palsy.

“Hey, fellas,” Barney ambled along like the pied piper with the children in tow. “It looks like Fly Carrington was out here all right. Is he our perp or a witness?”

“He was acting a little hinky in the squad,” Hank noted. “He kept making that stupid noise. Whup, whup, whup. And that’s odd because ‘Hi Fly’ has always been the extent of his conversation.”

“Just what do you suppose it means?” Steve tried to sound normal. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Hank’s pocket—the medallion was so close.

“He’s a mental case. I don’t think he’d kill a ladybug. But maybe he saw something.” Barney ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “Question is, how do you squeeze a lemon that’s got no juice?”

“What difference does it make? He’d make a piss-poor witness,” Hank replied. “Let’s get back and try to put this together. Come on, Hallie.”

“Oh yeah,” Barney grinned. “You just go on, you two. Don’t stop for lunch unless he’s paying, Hallie.” He watched them walk away. Damn, this might just work out despite the tragedy.

“What?” Steve interrupted Barney’s thoughts.

“Oh, I was just hoping that young lady might lift Hank’s spirits. He’s been missing his wife who passed away,” Barney replied.

“He does look happy. I don’t think I’ve seen him without a frown since I started working for you.”

“Right,” Barney climbed into the passenger seat of the cruiser. “Hey Steve. Does Art Hughes still work at the academy? Did you have him for any classes?”

“Art Hughes, Art Hughes. Yup, I believe I did. Name rings a bell,” Steve replied, backing into the road.

“It should,” Barney said. “He’d been there about a hundred years.” He watched the familiar countryside slide by as he thought about his dilemma. Because there was no Art Hughes at the academy. There had never been.

An icy dread chilled Barney’s heart and made his knees weak. It was the skin-crawling anxiety that always signalled some catastrophe, like an old man’s gouty toe shouting about rain on the way.

The redheaded child’s ghost taunted him. Now he had to include Fly in the chaos for a guaranteed community disaster. Then there was Steve Brooks, the elusive rookie who seemed to appear out of nowhere and appeared to have all the correct answers except one.

Steve pondered the medal and E20028. He watched Barney, who was lost in thought. Personal danger wasn’t something Steve expected in Cedar Creek. Art Hughes, Arthur Hughes—the name seemed as elusive as smoke. He thought about the academy and tried to picture his instructors, but nothing and no one came to mind. Not even faces.

In the other vehicle, Hank sat quietly, recalling hot afternoons fishing beside the creek. Young Fly Carrington often sat on a nearby log, but not too close to bother him. Fly would pop a candy into his mouth and use the wrapper to bait his hook. Over the years, Fly had become more of a loner. Or was it Hank who made him that way? Had he neglected the boy?

Hallie watched Hank from the corner of her eye and thought of Ruth or Hanna’s face replacing the dead little girl’s. She reflected on their growing beauty and delicate naiveté. And she considered the pain of some unfortunate mother, soon to receive the tragic news of her little girl’s death.

Back at the O’Bryan Farm, Robbie and Maggie headed home, following the ditch and making wishes on Queen Anne’s lace.

“Robbie,” Maggie asked her mean, ugly brother, “Do you think it was a real person out in our field? Do you think the monster will find us, too?”

“Monsters don’t come after boys.” Robbie kicked a stone, sending it skittering into the road. “Just girls.”

A clump of mud hit the back of his head and knocked him into the ditch. He surfaced from the water with a bloodsucker stuck to his cheek. He was holding a soggy teddy bear.

“HOOHA!” Maggie yelled.

“Don’t just holler, pull this sucker off my face,” Robbie squealed.

“That’s Hooha! Sarah’s bear.”

Pull this thing off right now. I’ll get rabies and foam at the mouth like Ol’ Yeller and bite you,” Robbie threatened.

Maggie grabbed the bear and held it tightly to her chest. Then she ran, unaware of her brother’s situation. Robbie followed her muddy footprints, bleating like an injured goat all the way to the house. All was not well in Cedar Creek on this hot summer afternoon.

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