NEW! "Can't Find My Way Home" - Part Two of Two (Nuke/ATWT/Angels Lie)
Title: Can’t Find My Way Home - Part Two of Two
What It Is: Oneshot in two parts/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Author: willwork4dean
Pairing: Nuke
Rating: M for language
Summary: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Hey, all! I’m headed out of town on Thursday, so I wanted to make sure I got this up before I left. If I don’t respond to your reply right away, I will when I get back. Thanks!
***
Can’t Find My Way Home - Part Two
Jack forces himself to look at the scene objectively, as an investigator. The cabin is narrow, the ceiling so low that Jack can’t stand fully upright. To his right, there’s a berth set into the wall; to his left, a kitchenette. Forward, there’s a tiny restroom and an even tinier storage closet stuffed with lifejackets and fishing gear.
There's a chair in the center of the floor. It’s incongruous because it’s freestanding. The other furnishings are built into the cabin or battened down so as not to be a hazard in rough water. Everything’s neat and ship-shape, made to scale and engineered for maximum efficiency.
The chair is an ordinary size and looks like it belongs in someone’s kitchen, not on a boat. It’s got a metal frame and an olive-green vinyl seat with the stuffing bursting out. There are bright yellow nylon ropes still tied to the arms and legs. They’re probably part of the boat’s original equipment. The fiber is fraying where they’ve been sawed with a knife, but the blood is still visible.
Jack takes a deep breath. He remembers to inhale through his mouth instead of his nose, but he can still smell it. Still taste the coppery tang on his tongue.
Dallas speaks again. “Jack.”
“I know,” Jack says quietly.
There’s blood everywhere. On the deck beneath their shoes, on the grubby mattress, on the kitchen counter, on the wall next to the bunk. There’s a bloody handprint on the ceiling.
Jack hears Dallas swear under his breath and turns quickly to look at him. “We don’t know that it’s his. We don’t know anything yet.”
“Right.” Dallas runs a hand over his mouth, then walks in a slow circle, surveying the scene. “They obviously weren’t careful,” he says, thinking aloud. “The state should find plenty of fingerprints. DNA, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack crouches down and examines the deck. There’s a broken fishing rod and a glass bottle with a shattered neck, both rolling gently from side to side as the boat bobs. There’s a bloodstained plaid shirt scrunched up beneath the chair and oddly, a pair of sneakers placed against the wall, socks neatly folded and stuffed inside.
“Are those Noah’s?” Dallas asks.
Jack clears his throat, which aches suddenly. “Dunno. They’re certainly big enough. The kid’s got feet like canoes.” He feels the deck tilt, then hears heavy footsteps. Killdeer stands in the doorway.
“State boys are here,” he says gruffly. “Time to clear out.”
***
For the next hour, Jack paces the riverbank, prowling back and forth. The crime lab techs take their sweet time unloading their equipment and hauling it on the boat. At one point, both of Killdeer’s deputies are dispatched. One returns with coffee and doughnuts. The other brings a passenger - a weathered man leaning on a cane. He greets Killdeer and they walk down to inspect the boat. The man nods and points to several places on the hull. Killdeer then introduces him to Dallas, who shakes the man’s hand and pulls him aside to look at the case file. Jack tells himself to join them, get back to work, but he can’t seem to make himself move.
Then he sees one of the techs walk on deck, strip off his protective gear, and head for the coffee, which is set up on a nearby picnic table. Jack intercepts him.
“I’m Detective Jack Snyder, Oakdale PD. I’ve been working on the Mayer case.” He holds out his hand.
The man ignores it, reaching instead for the coffee. “Pat Beck, ISP Forensics.” Beck adjusts his thick-framed glasses and looks at Jack in irritation. “Were you the idiot who tampered with my crime scene?”
“I didn’t tamper with anything.”
“Oh, yeah?” Beck rips open two packets of Sweet N Low, pours it in his coffee, and flicks away the empty packets. “You weren’t stomping around on deck in your giant clown shoes?”
Jack looks down at his feet. “Uh, I didn’t-"
“You didn’t go on the boat?”
“Yeah, I did.” Jack feels like he’s been caught with his hand in his Aunt Emma’s cookie jar. “But I just looked around.”
Beck grabs a wooden stir stick and stirs his coffee briskly. “Did you wear shoe covers?”
“No,” Jack says slowly.
Beck taps the stir stick on the side of his cup, then sucks the last drops of coffee off it. “You touch anything?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Jack snaps. He remembers crouching down and looking at the deck. He’s almost positive he didn’t touch it. Or the doorway, even though he may have leaned against it momentarily for support.
Beck interrupts his recollections. “Did you wear gloves?”
“No.” Jack feels his temper fray. “Look, I may be some downstate cop from a jerkwater town, but I am a trained investigator-"
Beck tosses the stick aside and finally turns to look at Jack. “Detective Snyder, this isn’t about jurisdiction, or some stupid state-versus-local feud. This is about catching a dangerous fugitive.” He steps closer. “Mayer and his accomplice have already killed two people, and it’s my understanding they may have a hostage. That means every piece of information on that boat is crucial - every footprint, every fingerprint, every drop of blood. And every single person who goes on that boat without proper protective gear contaminates the scene, wasting my team’s time and energy and making it that much harder to get the information we need to nail the motherfucker who did this. Do I make myself clear?”
Jack grits his teeth. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Beck turns away and flips open the lid to the box of doughnuts.
Jack takes a deep breath. “I apologize,” he says. “It’s just...if you’ve read the file, you know that Colonel Mayer committed some pretty horrific crimes in Oakdale. Some of his victims were members of my family, members of my department.”
Beck doesn’t answer.
Jack tries again. “If there’s any way Oakdale PD can be of service, please contact me.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Beck nods stiffly, then selects a doughnut and balances it on top of his coffee cup. He turns away, and Jack stops him with a hand on his arm.
“Can you just-" Jack clears his throat. “I know it’s premature, but do you have any theories about what happened on that boat?”
Beck adjusts his glasses again. “Torture. Now if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have to get back to work.” He walks away.
“Jack.”
Jack stands staring after Beck.
“Jack!”
Jack turns and blinks at Dallas as he hurries up. “Yeah?”
Dallas nods toward the man with the cane. “I’ve been talking to the manager of the marina. They called him in to ID the boat. Guess who used to work for him.”
Jack stares at him blankly. “Who?”
“Moloney.”
The fog lifts a little bit. “I thought he was from Joliet,” Jack says.
“He is, but his grandparents live nearby. Apparently, Jimmy got in with a bad crowd in high school, had some trouble with the law. His mother made him spend his summers here, living with his grandparents and working at the marina. Manager says he was a good kid - quiet, respectful, never gave him any trouble.”
“Has he seen him recently?”
“Not since he enlisted. But I think it’s pretty obvious how Mayer got his hands on that boat. According to the manager, the marina’s not exactly a high-security operation.”
“Lemme guess - the key’s been hanging on the same nail in the boat shack since 1974.”
“Pretty much.” Dallas grins. “You ready for the good news?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Moloney’s grandfather died a few years back, but his grandmother still lives in the area.”
***
The house is long and narrow and runs the length of the lot, shotgun-style. The front porch sags a little, and one side is propped up with cinder blocks, but the lace curtains in the windows are neat and prim.
After an agonizing forty-five minutes, Killdeer opens the creaky screen door and clomps across the porch and down the steps.
“What the hell took you so long?” Jack demands.
“Gimme a break, Snyder. I’m not going to shake down an old lady.”
Jack scrubs his face with his hands. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“No worries.” Killdeer lays a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I had to spend the first half hour listening to stories about Jimmy. She’s pretty proud of that boy. Showed me pictures of him in his military uniform.”
“What about his prison uniform?” Jack asks sourly.
“That little scuffle at the bar?” Killdeer grimaces. “Boys will be boys, in her words.”
“Does she know her boy sawed the other boy’s ear off with his Bowie knife?” Dallas asks.
Killdeer shrugs. “Doubt it. Either way, she’s convinced he was railroaded. And to prove what a good boy Jimmy is, she told me he visits her at least once a week, does odd jobs around the house. Lately, he’s been working on her car. She hasn’t driven it since her husband died.”
Jack stares at him. “Her car?”
Killdeer grins. “Let’s check it out, shall we?”
***
Killdeer leads the way to a single-car garage at the back of the property. It’s choked with weeds and so run-down it’s leaning at an angle.
They approach cautiously, guns at the ready. Killdeer reaches down and grasps the handle of the garage door. He glances at Jack, who nods. Killdeer gives a sharp tug and steps back, raising his weapon.
The weighted door swings up.
The garage is empty.
“Well, well, well,” Killdeer says in an exaggerated drawl. “Looks like Jimmy Moloney done took his granny’s car for a spin.”
They holster their weapons and step cautiously inside. There’s a handmade workbench along one wall, a rack of well-used tools hanging neatly above it. A few paint cans are stacked on the floor next to two ancient lawn chairs. The place smells of old wood, motor oil, and the sweet, sickly stench of mice.
Dallas abruptly bends in half and rests his hands on his knees.
“You okay?” Jack asks, alarmed.
Dallas straightens, laughing ruefully. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” he says, wiping his palms on his jeans. “A row of squirrel heads, mounted on the wall like trophies. The neighbor’s cat, neatly eviscerated.”
Jack shakes his head. “You watch too much TV.”
Killdeer flicks on his flashlight and scans the room. “Huh. Take a look at this.”
He points to a faded photo on the wall above the workbench, tacked next to a drugstore calendar dated 2003. The photo is of young Jim and his grandfather, presumably, posing proudly in front of a mustard-yellow Plymouth. Killdeer peers closer at the photo and whistles appreciatively.
“VIP, 1968. Nice car.”
“Damn.” Dallas squints at the photo. “Pretty big trunk on a ride like that. Big enough to hide a fugitive in, you think?”
Killdeer grins fiercely. “You bet your ass. Especially if you made some modifications. Take out the spare to create more room, add some vents for air. It'd be damn cozy inside."
Jack’s phone rings. He excuses himself and steps outside the garage. “Snyder.”
“Jack? It’s Margo. What’s this I hear about you contaminating a crime scene?”
Jack rubs his eyes as his headache kicks it up a notch. “Jesus, Margo, I didn’t-"
“And did you really tamper with evidence? Harass a state police investigator?”
“Of course not!” Jack says. “I’m just trying to get some answers!”
“Trying to get answers or impeding the investigation?”
Jack paces the driveway in frustration. “Who called you?” he asks. “Was it Beck?”
He hears papers shuffling. “No, his supervisor,” Margo says. “Where are you now?”
“Cordova. We’ve identified the getaway car.”
“Great. Now get your ass back here now.”
“Goddammit, Margo-"
“Jack, this is not our jurisdiction. You know that.”
“I don’t care!” Jack yells. Dallas and Killdeer turn to stare at him. “I don’t give a fuck about jurisdiction!”
“I do,” Margo says tightly. “The state has the lead on this. And if there’s any evidence that the Colonel is holding Noah against his will - and ISP says there’s plenty - then it’s officially a kidnapping, and the Feds take over. Especially if he’s taken Noah across state lines.”
Jack stops pacing and closes his eyes. “Margo, please.”
“Ass. Back here. Now,” Margo says. “That’s an order.”
***
Come down on your own and leave your body alone
Somebody must change
You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years
Somebody holds the key
But I’m near the end and just ain’t got the time
And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home
***
Dallas lets Jack drive because he needs something to do. Plus, he assures Dallas that he’s fully capable of driving and brooding at the same time.
After an hour, Dallas glances up from studying the file. “Looks like there’s a storm coming.”
Jack grunts in reply and peers out the windshield. Black thunderclouds are piling up over the prairie, crowned with an anvil-shaped top a mile wide - unusual for September, but not unheard-of given the humidity. As the first fat raindrops splat against the windshield, Jack’s cell rings.
He ignores it.
It rings again.
“You gonna get that or should I?” Dallas asks mildly.
Jack swears under his breath and grabs the phone. “Snyder. Whaddya want?”
“Well, don’t bite my head off.”
Jack winces. “Killdeer. Sorry. What have you got?”
“I called in the car,” Killdeer says. “Every state agency is on alert. I told them color doesn’t matter. If Moloney was thorough - and so far he has been - he’ll have had it repainted.”
“Good thinking,” Jack says. “Anything new at the crime scene?”
“Not yet. Divers are here, finally.”
Suddenly, Jack can't breathe.
“Snyder? You there? God-damn these cell phones.”
“I’m here,” Jack says automatically. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. You’re a real pro.”
“Meh.” Jack can picture Killdeer shrugging off the compliment. “Just buy me a beer sometime.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And keep me in the loop. We downstaters gotta stick together.” There’s a pause. “I hope you find your boy.” Jack notices that Killdeer doesn’t say alive.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Jack hangs up and stares out the windshield at the rain.
“What’s up?” Dallas asks.
“They’re..." Jack’s voice catches. “They’re dragging the river.”
“Good.” Dallas nods firmly. “It’s about damn time.”
Jack jerks the wheel to the right and hits the brakes.
“Jesus!” Dallas braces his hand against the roof as the car fishtails in the roadside gravel. “Watch it!”
The car slides to a screeching halt. Jack puts it in park and gets out, slamming the door behind him. He storms off into the weeds, fists clenched. He wants to punch something - anything - but there’s nothing in sight but a metal mile marker and some cows. Instead, he throws back his head and howls at the sky.
The cows look at him for a few seconds, then go back to chewing their cud.
Jack’s knees buckle. He finds himself crouching in the mud, leaning against a fencepost for support, gripping the splintery wood in one hand. It’s raining in earnest now, and he can feel the raindrops hitting the back of his head and running down his face like tears. After a moment, he hears the car door creak open, then footsteps approaching in the gravel.
“You all right, Snyder?” Dallas asks.
Jack runs his hands over his wet face. “They were on the river.”
“What’s that?” Dallas leans closer.
Jack looks up at his partner. “They were on the river this whole time. Maybe for days. And I didn’t..." He stands abruptly and walks away. Dallas follows.
“Jack-"
“I didn’t know!” Jack whirls around, and Dallas takes a step back. “I should have known! I should have figured it out!” He pounds his fist on his chest.
“Jesus, Jack, no one else figured it out either.”
“That’s no fucking excuse!” Jack stops, breathing heavily, and puts his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault either,” Dallas says quietly.
“I let Noah go that night.”
“You weren’t even there,” Dallas points out. “You had to go pick up Luke and make sure he was safe, right? By the time you got back to Holden and Lily’s, Noah was gone.”
Jack shakes his head. “I should have known he would do something stupid. I should have put him in protective custody immediately.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Dallas says. “Look at how far we’ve gotten today. We found the boat and now we’ve got a lead on the car.”
“Do you think Noah’s dead?” Jack asks bluntly. “You do, don’t you?”
“Jesus, Jack, I don’t know.” Dallas runs a hand across his bald head, wiping away the raindrops. He looks away, across the endless fields, then back. “Let’s be logical, okay? Yeah, there was blood on the boat, but not buckets. Not pints. We’ve both seen crimes scenes where the victim bled out, and this wasn’t it. Right?”
Jack exhales, trying to force his mind to work. “Right.”
“And Mayer made a mistake, maybe even a fatal one.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“He didn’t scuttle the boat.” Dallas steps closer. “He should have, right? He should have sunk it along with all that evidence, but he didn’t.”
Jack nods reluctantly. “You’re right. But what does that tell us?”
“It tells us that whatever Mayer’s plan was for his son, he’s not finished yet. And that means there’s still a chance that Noah’s alive.” Dallas reaches out and grasps Jack’s arms. “And as long as there’s a chance, you and I need to keep working. But right now, partner?” He gives Jack a little shake. “Right now, all we’re doing is standing around in a field getting wet.”
Jack laughs in spite of himself. “Right. Okay. You’re right.”
Dallas steps back and drops his arms. “Of course I am. Now let’s get home, get dry, and get back to work, okay?”
“Okay.” Jack hesitates. “Thanks, partner.”
Dallas slaps Jack’s back, hard enough to almost knock him over. “No problem. Now get your ass back in the car. I’m driving.”
***
By the time they reach Oakdale, it’s full dark and storming in earnest. Lightning flashes overhead as they duck into the station. Thunder follows. Rain, driven by the wind, pelts against the windows. Inside, they change into dry clothes and get back to their desks. When Jack checks his voice mail, there are three messages from Holden asking for updates. Jack knows his cousin’s voice - he sounds calm and steady as always, but there’s a note of panic underneath.
Jack hesitates, phone receiver in hand. He’s not sure how much to tell Holden - if anything - about the crime scene.
There’s a loud crack of thunder, and the lights go off. Everyone in the office groans.
“Give it a minute,” Jack says. “The generator will come on.”
Sure enough, after several seconds, he hears the whine of the generator kicking in.
When the emergency lights flicker on, there’s a tall, dripping wet figure standing by Jack’s desk.
“Jesus!” Jack jumps in alarm.
“Hey, Jack.” With shaking, bloody hands, Noah carefully places the pistol and half-empty clip on the desk. “Miss me?”
I can’t find my way home
I still can’t find my way home
I ain’t done nothing wrong
But I can’t find my way home
The End
***
**Lyrics from “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith**
What It Is: Oneshot in two parts/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Author: willwork4dean
Pairing: Nuke
Rating: M for language
Summary: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Hey, all! I’m headed out of town on Thursday, so I wanted to make sure I got this up before I left. If I don’t respond to your reply right away, I will when I get back. Thanks!
***
Can’t Find My Way Home - Part Two
Jack forces himself to look at the scene objectively, as an investigator. The cabin is narrow, the ceiling so low that Jack can’t stand fully upright. To his right, there’s a berth set into the wall; to his left, a kitchenette. Forward, there’s a tiny restroom and an even tinier storage closet stuffed with lifejackets and fishing gear.
There's a chair in the center of the floor. It’s incongruous because it’s freestanding. The other furnishings are built into the cabin or battened down so as not to be a hazard in rough water. Everything’s neat and ship-shape, made to scale and engineered for maximum efficiency.
The chair is an ordinary size and looks like it belongs in someone’s kitchen, not on a boat. It’s got a metal frame and an olive-green vinyl seat with the stuffing bursting out. There are bright yellow nylon ropes still tied to the arms and legs. They’re probably part of the boat’s original equipment. The fiber is fraying where they’ve been sawed with a knife, but the blood is still visible.
Jack takes a deep breath. He remembers to inhale through his mouth instead of his nose, but he can still smell it. Still taste the coppery tang on his tongue.
Dallas speaks again. “Jack.”
“I know,” Jack says quietly.
There’s blood everywhere. On the deck beneath their shoes, on the grubby mattress, on the kitchen counter, on the wall next to the bunk. There’s a bloody handprint on the ceiling.
Jack hears Dallas swear under his breath and turns quickly to look at him. “We don’t know that it’s his. We don’t know anything yet.”
“Right.” Dallas runs a hand over his mouth, then walks in a slow circle, surveying the scene. “They obviously weren’t careful,” he says, thinking aloud. “The state should find plenty of fingerprints. DNA, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack crouches down and examines the deck. There’s a broken fishing rod and a glass bottle with a shattered neck, both rolling gently from side to side as the boat bobs. There’s a bloodstained plaid shirt scrunched up beneath the chair and oddly, a pair of sneakers placed against the wall, socks neatly folded and stuffed inside.
“Are those Noah’s?” Dallas asks.
Jack clears his throat, which aches suddenly. “Dunno. They’re certainly big enough. The kid’s got feet like canoes.” He feels the deck tilt, then hears heavy footsteps. Killdeer stands in the doorway.
“State boys are here,” he says gruffly. “Time to clear out.”
***
For the next hour, Jack paces the riverbank, prowling back and forth. The crime lab techs take their sweet time unloading their equipment and hauling it on the boat. At one point, both of Killdeer’s deputies are dispatched. One returns with coffee and doughnuts. The other brings a passenger - a weathered man leaning on a cane. He greets Killdeer and they walk down to inspect the boat. The man nods and points to several places on the hull. Killdeer then introduces him to Dallas, who shakes the man’s hand and pulls him aside to look at the case file. Jack tells himself to join them, get back to work, but he can’t seem to make himself move.
Then he sees one of the techs walk on deck, strip off his protective gear, and head for the coffee, which is set up on a nearby picnic table. Jack intercepts him.
“I’m Detective Jack Snyder, Oakdale PD. I’ve been working on the Mayer case.” He holds out his hand.
The man ignores it, reaching instead for the coffee. “Pat Beck, ISP Forensics.” Beck adjusts his thick-framed glasses and looks at Jack in irritation. “Were you the idiot who tampered with my crime scene?”
“I didn’t tamper with anything.”
“Oh, yeah?” Beck rips open two packets of Sweet N Low, pours it in his coffee, and flicks away the empty packets. “You weren’t stomping around on deck in your giant clown shoes?”
Jack looks down at his feet. “Uh, I didn’t-"
“You didn’t go on the boat?”
“Yeah, I did.” Jack feels like he’s been caught with his hand in his Aunt Emma’s cookie jar. “But I just looked around.”
Beck grabs a wooden stir stick and stirs his coffee briskly. “Did you wear shoe covers?”
“No,” Jack says slowly.
Beck taps the stir stick on the side of his cup, then sucks the last drops of coffee off it. “You touch anything?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Jack snaps. He remembers crouching down and looking at the deck. He’s almost positive he didn’t touch it. Or the doorway, even though he may have leaned against it momentarily for support.
Beck interrupts his recollections. “Did you wear gloves?”
“No.” Jack feels his temper fray. “Look, I may be some downstate cop from a jerkwater town, but I am a trained investigator-"
Beck tosses the stick aside and finally turns to look at Jack. “Detective Snyder, this isn’t about jurisdiction, or some stupid state-versus-local feud. This is about catching a dangerous fugitive.” He steps closer. “Mayer and his accomplice have already killed two people, and it’s my understanding they may have a hostage. That means every piece of information on that boat is crucial - every footprint, every fingerprint, every drop of blood. And every single person who goes on that boat without proper protective gear contaminates the scene, wasting my team’s time and energy and making it that much harder to get the information we need to nail the motherfucker who did this. Do I make myself clear?”
Jack grits his teeth. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Beck turns away and flips open the lid to the box of doughnuts.
Jack takes a deep breath. “I apologize,” he says. “It’s just...if you’ve read the file, you know that Colonel Mayer committed some pretty horrific crimes in Oakdale. Some of his victims were members of my family, members of my department.”
Beck doesn’t answer.
Jack tries again. “If there’s any way Oakdale PD can be of service, please contact me.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Beck nods stiffly, then selects a doughnut and balances it on top of his coffee cup. He turns away, and Jack stops him with a hand on his arm.
“Can you just-" Jack clears his throat. “I know it’s premature, but do you have any theories about what happened on that boat?”
Beck adjusts his glasses again. “Torture. Now if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have to get back to work.” He walks away.
“Jack.”
Jack stands staring after Beck.
“Jack!”
Jack turns and blinks at Dallas as he hurries up. “Yeah?”
Dallas nods toward the man with the cane. “I’ve been talking to the manager of the marina. They called him in to ID the boat. Guess who used to work for him.”
Jack stares at him blankly. “Who?”
“Moloney.”
The fog lifts a little bit. “I thought he was from Joliet,” Jack says.
“He is, but his grandparents live nearby. Apparently, Jimmy got in with a bad crowd in high school, had some trouble with the law. His mother made him spend his summers here, living with his grandparents and working at the marina. Manager says he was a good kid - quiet, respectful, never gave him any trouble.”
“Has he seen him recently?”
“Not since he enlisted. But I think it’s pretty obvious how Mayer got his hands on that boat. According to the manager, the marina’s not exactly a high-security operation.”
“Lemme guess - the key’s been hanging on the same nail in the boat shack since 1974.”
“Pretty much.” Dallas grins. “You ready for the good news?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Moloney’s grandfather died a few years back, but his grandmother still lives in the area.”
***
The house is long and narrow and runs the length of the lot, shotgun-style. The front porch sags a little, and one side is propped up with cinder blocks, but the lace curtains in the windows are neat and prim.
After an agonizing forty-five minutes, Killdeer opens the creaky screen door and clomps across the porch and down the steps.
“What the hell took you so long?” Jack demands.
“Gimme a break, Snyder. I’m not going to shake down an old lady.”
Jack scrubs his face with his hands. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“No worries.” Killdeer lays a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I had to spend the first half hour listening to stories about Jimmy. She’s pretty proud of that boy. Showed me pictures of him in his military uniform.”
“What about his prison uniform?” Jack asks sourly.
“That little scuffle at the bar?” Killdeer grimaces. “Boys will be boys, in her words.”
“Does she know her boy sawed the other boy’s ear off with his Bowie knife?” Dallas asks.
Killdeer shrugs. “Doubt it. Either way, she’s convinced he was railroaded. And to prove what a good boy Jimmy is, she told me he visits her at least once a week, does odd jobs around the house. Lately, he’s been working on her car. She hasn’t driven it since her husband died.”
Jack stares at him. “Her car?”
Killdeer grins. “Let’s check it out, shall we?”
***
Killdeer leads the way to a single-car garage at the back of the property. It’s choked with weeds and so run-down it’s leaning at an angle.
They approach cautiously, guns at the ready. Killdeer reaches down and grasps the handle of the garage door. He glances at Jack, who nods. Killdeer gives a sharp tug and steps back, raising his weapon.
The weighted door swings up.
The garage is empty.
“Well, well, well,” Killdeer says in an exaggerated drawl. “Looks like Jimmy Moloney done took his granny’s car for a spin.”
They holster their weapons and step cautiously inside. There’s a handmade workbench along one wall, a rack of well-used tools hanging neatly above it. A few paint cans are stacked on the floor next to two ancient lawn chairs. The place smells of old wood, motor oil, and the sweet, sickly stench of mice.
Dallas abruptly bends in half and rests his hands on his knees.
“You okay?” Jack asks, alarmed.
Dallas straightens, laughing ruefully. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” he says, wiping his palms on his jeans. “A row of squirrel heads, mounted on the wall like trophies. The neighbor’s cat, neatly eviscerated.”
Jack shakes his head. “You watch too much TV.”
Killdeer flicks on his flashlight and scans the room. “Huh. Take a look at this.”
He points to a faded photo on the wall above the workbench, tacked next to a drugstore calendar dated 2003. The photo is of young Jim and his grandfather, presumably, posing proudly in front of a mustard-yellow Plymouth. Killdeer peers closer at the photo and whistles appreciatively.
“VIP, 1968. Nice car.”
“Damn.” Dallas squints at the photo. “Pretty big trunk on a ride like that. Big enough to hide a fugitive in, you think?”
Killdeer grins fiercely. “You bet your ass. Especially if you made some modifications. Take out the spare to create more room, add some vents for air. It'd be damn cozy inside."
Jack’s phone rings. He excuses himself and steps outside the garage. “Snyder.”
“Jack? It’s Margo. What’s this I hear about you contaminating a crime scene?”
Jack rubs his eyes as his headache kicks it up a notch. “Jesus, Margo, I didn’t-"
“And did you really tamper with evidence? Harass a state police investigator?”
“Of course not!” Jack says. “I’m just trying to get some answers!”
“Trying to get answers or impeding the investigation?”
Jack paces the driveway in frustration. “Who called you?” he asks. “Was it Beck?”
He hears papers shuffling. “No, his supervisor,” Margo says. “Where are you now?”
“Cordova. We’ve identified the getaway car.”
“Great. Now get your ass back here now.”
“Goddammit, Margo-"
“Jack, this is not our jurisdiction. You know that.”
“I don’t care!” Jack yells. Dallas and Killdeer turn to stare at him. “I don’t give a fuck about jurisdiction!”
“I do,” Margo says tightly. “The state has the lead on this. And if there’s any evidence that the Colonel is holding Noah against his will - and ISP says there’s plenty - then it’s officially a kidnapping, and the Feds take over. Especially if he’s taken Noah across state lines.”
Jack stops pacing and closes his eyes. “Margo, please.”
“Ass. Back here. Now,” Margo says. “That’s an order.”
***
Come down on your own and leave your body alone
Somebody must change
You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years
Somebody holds the key
But I’m near the end and just ain’t got the time
And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home
***
Dallas lets Jack drive because he needs something to do. Plus, he assures Dallas that he’s fully capable of driving and brooding at the same time.
After an hour, Dallas glances up from studying the file. “Looks like there’s a storm coming.”
Jack grunts in reply and peers out the windshield. Black thunderclouds are piling up over the prairie, crowned with an anvil-shaped top a mile wide - unusual for September, but not unheard-of given the humidity. As the first fat raindrops splat against the windshield, Jack’s cell rings.
He ignores it.
It rings again.
“You gonna get that or should I?” Dallas asks mildly.
Jack swears under his breath and grabs the phone. “Snyder. Whaddya want?”
“Well, don’t bite my head off.”
Jack winces. “Killdeer. Sorry. What have you got?”
“I called in the car,” Killdeer says. “Every state agency is on alert. I told them color doesn’t matter. If Moloney was thorough - and so far he has been - he’ll have had it repainted.”
“Good thinking,” Jack says. “Anything new at the crime scene?”
“Not yet. Divers are here, finally.”
Suddenly, Jack can't breathe.
“Snyder? You there? God-damn these cell phones.”
“I’m here,” Jack says automatically. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. You’re a real pro.”
“Meh.” Jack can picture Killdeer shrugging off the compliment. “Just buy me a beer sometime.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And keep me in the loop. We downstaters gotta stick together.” There’s a pause. “I hope you find your boy.” Jack notices that Killdeer doesn’t say alive.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Jack hangs up and stares out the windshield at the rain.
“What’s up?” Dallas asks.
“They’re..." Jack’s voice catches. “They’re dragging the river.”
“Good.” Dallas nods firmly. “It’s about damn time.”
Jack jerks the wheel to the right and hits the brakes.
“Jesus!” Dallas braces his hand against the roof as the car fishtails in the roadside gravel. “Watch it!”
The car slides to a screeching halt. Jack puts it in park and gets out, slamming the door behind him. He storms off into the weeds, fists clenched. He wants to punch something - anything - but there’s nothing in sight but a metal mile marker and some cows. Instead, he throws back his head and howls at the sky.
The cows look at him for a few seconds, then go back to chewing their cud.
Jack’s knees buckle. He finds himself crouching in the mud, leaning against a fencepost for support, gripping the splintery wood in one hand. It’s raining in earnest now, and he can feel the raindrops hitting the back of his head and running down his face like tears. After a moment, he hears the car door creak open, then footsteps approaching in the gravel.
“You all right, Snyder?” Dallas asks.
Jack runs his hands over his wet face. “They were on the river.”
“What’s that?” Dallas leans closer.
Jack looks up at his partner. “They were on the river this whole time. Maybe for days. And I didn’t..." He stands abruptly and walks away. Dallas follows.
“Jack-"
“I didn’t know!” Jack whirls around, and Dallas takes a step back. “I should have known! I should have figured it out!” He pounds his fist on his chest.
“Jesus, Jack, no one else figured it out either.”
“That’s no fucking excuse!” Jack stops, breathing heavily, and puts his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault either,” Dallas says quietly.
“I let Noah go that night.”
“You weren’t even there,” Dallas points out. “You had to go pick up Luke and make sure he was safe, right? By the time you got back to Holden and Lily’s, Noah was gone.”
Jack shakes his head. “I should have known he would do something stupid. I should have put him in protective custody immediately.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Dallas says. “Look at how far we’ve gotten today. We found the boat and now we’ve got a lead on the car.”
“Do you think Noah’s dead?” Jack asks bluntly. “You do, don’t you?”
“Jesus, Jack, I don’t know.” Dallas runs a hand across his bald head, wiping away the raindrops. He looks away, across the endless fields, then back. “Let’s be logical, okay? Yeah, there was blood on the boat, but not buckets. Not pints. We’ve both seen crimes scenes where the victim bled out, and this wasn’t it. Right?”
Jack exhales, trying to force his mind to work. “Right.”
“And Mayer made a mistake, maybe even a fatal one.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“He didn’t scuttle the boat.” Dallas steps closer. “He should have, right? He should have sunk it along with all that evidence, but he didn’t.”
Jack nods reluctantly. “You’re right. But what does that tell us?”
“It tells us that whatever Mayer’s plan was for his son, he’s not finished yet. And that means there’s still a chance that Noah’s alive.” Dallas reaches out and grasps Jack’s arms. “And as long as there’s a chance, you and I need to keep working. But right now, partner?” He gives Jack a little shake. “Right now, all we’re doing is standing around in a field getting wet.”
Jack laughs in spite of himself. “Right. Okay. You’re right.”
Dallas steps back and drops his arms. “Of course I am. Now let’s get home, get dry, and get back to work, okay?”
“Okay.” Jack hesitates. “Thanks, partner.”
Dallas slaps Jack’s back, hard enough to almost knock him over. “No problem. Now get your ass back in the car. I’m driving.”
***
By the time they reach Oakdale, it’s full dark and storming in earnest. Lightning flashes overhead as they duck into the station. Thunder follows. Rain, driven by the wind, pelts against the windows. Inside, they change into dry clothes and get back to their desks. When Jack checks his voice mail, there are three messages from Holden asking for updates. Jack knows his cousin’s voice - he sounds calm and steady as always, but there’s a note of panic underneath.
Jack hesitates, phone receiver in hand. He’s not sure how much to tell Holden - if anything - about the crime scene.
There’s a loud crack of thunder, and the lights go off. Everyone in the office groans.
“Give it a minute,” Jack says. “The generator will come on.”
Sure enough, after several seconds, he hears the whine of the generator kicking in.
When the emergency lights flicker on, there’s a tall, dripping wet figure standing by Jack’s desk.
“Jesus!” Jack jumps in alarm.
“Hey, Jack.” With shaking, bloody hands, Noah carefully places the pistol and half-empty clip on the desk. “Miss me?”
I can’t find my way home
I still can’t find my way home
I ain’t done nothing wrong
But I can’t find my way home
The End
***
**Lyrics from “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith**