Page 21 of Closer Than You Know

Only one way to prove her theory.

9

Owens ResidenceMcDeal Road, Fayetteville, 4:45 p.m.

The small house, or “shack,” as Elizabeth had called it, was over half a mile off McDeal Road, down a “more dirt than gravel” road. If it had a name, there was no sign. She had assumed it was a driveway, and it turned out it was. It came to a dead end in front of a sagging shack of a structure.

Vera climbed out of her SUV and closed the door.

It was damned quiet out here. The woods prevented anyone who might drive by on the paved road from seeing the tiny house, much less whatever was going on in or around it. Not a whole lot to observe, actually, except for a couple of junky vehicles. One, a car that was likely about her age, had no wheels and sat on concrete blocks. Dead for the winter, waist-high grass surrounded it. The other vehicle was a pickup. The lack of tall grass in the area where it sat suggested it had been driven recently. Lots of other junk decorated the yard. An old washing machine, a refrigerator with no doors, and a couple of lawn mowers in various stages of deconstruction.

The house itself had once been white but was now chippy and a more grayish color. The metal roof was rusty. And the porch sloped to one side.

Before the grass had died for winter, it had been at least knee high around the house. A narrow path appeared to have been trampled between the truck and the porch, confirming Vera’s initial conclusion about the vehicle.

She clutched her cell phone—luckily she still had service—and made her way to the porch. The lack of sound coming from inside the house sent alarms blaring in her head. Anytime things were this quiet, it could only mean one of two things—either no one was home or there was something bad waiting inside. Knowing her luck, it would be the latter.

There was electricity. The line ran to the meter at the end of the porch. She noted the disk on the old meter turning ever so slightly. Most houses in the area had digital meters now. Apparently this one had been missed, or maybe this address was outside the Fayetteville Public Utilities coverage area.

She pulled at the wooden screen door, which opened with a screech. The screen was torn in two places and sagged in another. The wooden door behind it was molting an old coat of pale-blue paint. She pounded a couple of times on the door. More loose paint chips drifted to the porch floor. Still no sound inside. The phone in her hand buzzed, and she jumped.

Bent.

Shit. She had to hurry, or he’d send out a search party for her. She wouldn’t put it past Elizabeth to have called and informed him of Vera’s visit just to prove she was aware of something he wasn’t.

Maybe not, though, considering her emotional state. Her son was missing, and she was terrified of losing him. Or so she seemed. Vera hadn’t completely let go of her skepticism.

She banged the side of her fist against the door again.

Still nothing. Not a single sound.

“To hell with it.” She was no longer a cop and was not bound by their rules, unless Bent was with her.

She reached for the knob and turned it. The door opened with a rusty squall. Inside, the place was dark. Smelled bad. Not “decomposing corpse” bad but “rotting food and trash” bad.

Vera felt along the wall for a switch but didn’t find one. She turned on her phone’s flashlight app and scanned the room she’d entered.

Worn, lumpy sofa. A side table loaded with beer cans and dirty plates. Two gold dots flashed.Eyes.Vera jumped back and slammed into the door, flattening it against the wall. A hiss echoed, and a black cat jumped from a chair, rushed past her and out through one of the holes in the screen door.

Vera pressed a hand to her chest. “Damned cat.” She turned back to the task of surveying the room. “Mr. Owens! It’s Vera Boyett. Are you home?”

Still all quiet.

The front room was one long area. The living room on the left, and on her right was a small kitchen, as well as a table and two chairs. The once–mint green cabinets were dingy and sported sagging doors. The sink was loaded with more dirty dishes. Open, presumably empty food cans cluttered the short span of countertop. Some were overturned, probably by the cat. A pan with a serving spoon stuck in the center of something not readily identifiable sat on the narrow stove. Not the usual size of stove for a house—more like for a travel trailer. There was a small fridge with a dented door. Next to the fridge was an open door, with a toilet visible beyond it. No way was she going in there.

All in all, the place was downright filthy, with no sign of the inhabitant. She finally spotted a string hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. A quick yank, and a dim overhead light came on. The few windows were covered with stained yellow blinds.

The single bare bulb wasn’t much help in the way of illumination, but it was better than nothing. She could open the rickety-looking blinds, but she’d just as soon not touch anything unnecessarily. She should have grabbed a pair of disposable gloves from the console in her car.

She stretched her neck, one way, then the other. Another door lay behind the sofa. Vera steeled herself and started in that direction.

“Mr. Owens, are you here? I’m concerned for your welfare. Are you all right?”

She paused at the door, steadied herself, then grasped the knob. If the man was in this room, he could be in a manic state or having a delusional episode. The lack of noise suggested that probably wasn’t the case. Braced for battle in any event, she opened the door and met with the same darkness as when she entered the house. She clicked on her phone’s flashlight.

The wall directly in front of her was covered with newspaper clippings about the Time Thief. Photos of the victims cut from newspapers were there as well. This was what Nolan had told his mother about. Poster-board-size squares of white were here and there, all filled with the same sorts of images and diagrams as found on the victims.

With effort, Vera forced her gaze away from the wall and checked the rest of the room. A derelict dresser. Drawers partially open, one drawer front missing entirely. Parts of socks or other clothing were hanging out here and there.

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