Without a Whisper

Lionel pulls the car up to the gravel parking lot, and I step out.

"Between you and me," Lionel starts, and I pause at the door. "The Sheriff has most of the town fooled, but it's all an illusion. Good policing comes a far second to his reputation. Get on the wrong side of that, and you'll be doing bitch work, like driving a PI around instead of patrolling."

Lionel doesn't like his Sheriff. Good to know.

"Thanks for the lift. See you tomorrow," I say. I close the car door and walk while looking over my shoulder to ensure he drives away.

Once he leaves, I plan on making my way back on foot to downtown. On the roads, it's over two miles. Through the woods, it'll feel like five. Lionel dropped me off at six, and I start walking at eight.

It's in the low sixties, which is a comfortable temperature for a walk through the woods. Right off the lodge I find a hunting trail, and if my GPS is to be believed, it should take me to the main road less than two hundred meters north of downtown. I'm sorely mistaken when the trail starts to circle back toward the lake. Pausing to catch my breath, I take the moment to determine if I should take my chances with the trail, or rough it off the path.

I turn the light off from my phone, so my eyes don't become unadjusted to darkness. As my eyes regain focus, I look down the trail that curved back to the lake and see a light in the distance. I look toward the darkness off the path. I look at my leg. A few years ago, I could do this no problem. Now I have limits.

The light at the end of the path is a large boathouse on the edge of the lake. A wide single-story structure expanding thirty feet off the shore. The boathouse is painted dark, and the only lights I see on, are porch lanterns on the side of doors wide enough to tow a boat through. The trail runs along the side of the boathouse, and a dirt road travels toward the main road someone would take to the lodge. As I follow the trail, I walk along the side of the structure and past a window. I peek inside as I do and see what one would expect in a boathouse near a lakeside lodge: canoes; oars; ropes; various nautical supplies; something the shape of a car under a tarp...you gotta be shitting me.

I turn the light of my phone on and shine it into the boathouse. The light beam shines over the tarp, and I look at the time. I must get moving for my meeting with Stephanie, so take a picture and start moving. I'll have to investigate this later.

The path took me all the way to the road, just outside of town. And it only took me the full two hours to get there. The clock is striking ten when walk onto main street. Careless Whisker is in the middle, so I wait across the street for Stephanie to leave. I check my phone after waiting a few minutes, and she's late. At twenty after, my phone chimes with a message. That number sent me a message, which is just the period punctuation. I reply with two periods, and ten seconds later Stephanie leaves, and looks for me.

Stephanie sees me, and then ducks into her car. She backs up into the street and pulls far to the right with her window down.

"Get in," Stephanie says. I make sure the Sheriff or other deputies aren't around and open the passenger door. "Back door, lay down." I dive into the backseat and lay across the entire space. "Sorry, but we're driving past the station, and I don't want them spotting you."

"You gonna tell me why?" I ask.

"Not here. Be quiet," Stephanie says, and I shut up for the time being.

All I can do is wait. I try to memorize the turns of the drive just in case I misjudged this, and I'm being delivered to my death. I count the streetlights as we pass under them. Three lights, left turn. Four lights, right turn. Seven lights, left turn. I hear the buzzing sound and see the red glow of a neon sign. The road becomes bumpy, and gravel crunches beneath the tires of the car.

"You can sit up now," Stephanie says. I push myself upright and evaluate my surroundings. My phone tells me the drive took twenty minutes on mostly paved roads until we arrived at a trailer park. Stephanie parks in front of a doublewide and kills the engine.

"Why the cloak and dagger?" I ask.

"We'll talk inside," Stephanie says. We exit the car, and Stephanie is still looking over her shoulder. She leads the way up a wooden porch to her home and opens the door with a key.

Stephanie's home is sparsely furnished, but what she does have is well organized and placed to fill the space. A couch and chair, no coffee table. A flat screen is mounted to the wall. A milk crate full of records is on a shelf below a record player. Her dining room table has two chairs and a half-built puzzle on top of it. Besides a microwave and refrigerator, the only other appliance visible is the coffee maker.

"Mind the mess," she says. She tosses her keys into a bowl on her countertop. It's clean. I think apologizing for a messy house is just etiquette regardless of the mess.

"I have a toddler, I've seen worse," I say.

"How'd you lose the leg?" Stephanie asks.

"Car crash," I say, and she knows I'm leaving something out. "You gonna tell me why I'm here?"

"Katie promised me she'd let me know she go there safely," Stephanie says. She inhales and releases the breath, then shakes her head. "That was over ten years ago."

"Were the two of you close?" I ask.

"Like sisters," she says, and points to the records. I flip through them and see Katie's handwriting in purple sharpy. "Those belonged to Katie."

"So does the Wham! album at the Whisker," I say, and she nods. "Do you also have her saxophone?" She shakes her head, telling me she took that with her. "Why are you so uncomfortable around the Sheriff?" I ask after several seconds of deep silence.

"I've never liked him. He was my stepfather once upon a time," Stephanie says.

"Your mom and the Sheriff?" I ask. An Irish Redhead with a black ass. At least that has context now. "He told me he didn't remember Katie at all."

"He's lying. They shared a dinner table over a dozen times," Stephanie says.

"You think he's involved?" I ask.

"Nothing goes on in this town without him knowing," she says.

"I need something more than you just not liking him," I say, but she doesn't say anything to reinforce her belief.

I see pictures around the record player on the shelf. She's smiling with Katie, sitting on the floor while surrounded by the records. Katie is visibly pregnant in the photo.

"Did she tell you about the pregnancy?" I ask.

"Just that she was planning on raising it herself," she says. I keep scanning the photos and see a picture of Stephanie with a man. She was younger than she was with Katie. "That's my dad. I haven't seen him since that picture was taken."

"Did Katie ever tell you her real name?" I ask, and to my surprise she nods.

"Grossman," Stephanie says. "She didn't plan on getting stuck in Whisper, but she did plan on stopping by. To meet me."

"What?" I ask.

"Katie was my sister," she says, and points to the photo still in my hand. "Half-sister. We had the same dad." Stephanie is the child her father had with a different woman. That's why Katie took the exit. Her being in the town wasn't an accident. "My mom didn't know. Still doesn't."

"How did you know about each other?" I say and put the photo down.

"Our dad cheated on her mom, and here I am. He accidently sent a child support check to the wrong house, and Katie intercepted it. Apparently, her mom never got him with a court order. She just remembered her mom drunkenly bitching about my very existence." So, her mother was always a drunk.

"Katie had a lot of money when she ran away, so how'd she get stuck here?" I ask. Stephanie slides over so I can take the seat next to her on the couch.

"She said she wished she hadn't thrown it out the car on the drive. One final fuck you to her stepfather. Katie kept enough for food and gas, but not enough to fix a car," Stephanie explained.

"Her gun?" I ask.

"I was twelve. She didn't tell me about it or show me it."

"What do you think happened to her?" I ask.

"I don't know what happened, but Katie would have called. I know she would have."

"Where was the last place you know she was in town?" I ask.

"She checked out of the lodge, and my mom drove her to pick up her car. We watched her drive away. I never saw or heard from her again," she says. She was on her way out of town when whatever happened, happened. That car under the tarp? Could it be the Buick Skylark? Are they that stupid?

"If something happens to me, there is a car under a tarp in a boathouse near the lodge," I say, and Stephanie's face jolts up.

"You don't think," Stephanie says, and I nod. "All this time, it was right there?"

"I don't know that for sure, but we have to find out," I say.

Stephanie is reluctant, but agrees we need to do it tonight while we still have the cover of darkness. She tells me there are several utility roads around the lake, and that the boathouse is likely off a service road to tow boats into the dock. I try my best to describe it to her as we drive over. I refuse to be sprawled out in the back this time.

I count the lights again. This time I have better landmark awareness. When she turns off the road, she kills her lights. She is paranoid someone will see her.

Because of the darkness and her insistence on keeping it that way, it takes nearly twenty minutes to get back to the service road. It rightfully should have been a five-minute drive. Slowly she turns onto the service road, only enough to take the back bumper off the pavement and stops.

"Far as I go," she says.

"Are you serious?" I ask, my eyes pointing at my leg.

"I still have to live here tomorrow," she says. Fair point. "Take a peek, then go back to the Lodge. Let me know tomorrow."

"Fine," I say, and open the car door. Her hand jumps up to block the dash light. I've seen some skittish people, but she is something else. I take three steps and she starts backing up. In seconds, she's driving down the street.

I limp down the road cursing to myself again. I've never missed my car more. I promise, I will learn basic maintenance when I get home. Change my own oil. Rotate my own tires. My son will learn these skills and never be me; a sweaty, dusty, amputee, who drives into a pothole.

"I hate this whole fucking town," I grumble to myself.

The boathouse enters my vision as a dark silhouette. The closer I get, the details become finer, and eventually I see the glow of the lamps on the opposite side. My eyes are so fixed on the building, I don't see a tree root and jam my real toe against it. I have to catch my balance on a fake leg, which just isn't happening, so face plant into a waist high bush along the dirt road.

"Motherfu..." I start to shout but cut myself short. Thankfully, it wasn't full of thorns. A thick leafy bush that somewhat cushioned my fall. Thin branches, somewhat prickly, that held onto my clothing when I tried to pull away. It grabbed at my shirt and refused to give. "Let go," and I tug away. The noise of my shirt tearing sounds like duct tape being separated from the roll. "Mother..." I need to keep it quiet. I'm about to break and enter private property.

I get out of the bush and determine the damage. The right of my shirt is torn from the waist to halfway up the armpit. "Shit."

After nearly losing my shirt, I finally arrive at the boathouse again. I use the light on my phone to watch my footing. I shove my phone back in and tip toe - emphasis on the singularity of that phrase -- to the window of the boathouse. It doesn't look like anything has changed in the few hours since I've been here. The same ropes. The same kayaks and boats. The same nondescript tarp over a car.

"Are you that stupid?" I ask. Now or never.

There is a thick chain wrapped around the handles of the doors, sealed shut with a heavy lock. They're not doing a great job at hiding it, but they definitely want to make it hard to get to. I tug at the lock and rotate it around in my hand to examine it. Industrial sized, polished silver with a black spin dial 1-49. It's a heavy lock, weighing over a pound. Spin dial means I couldn't pick it even if I knew how to pick locks. The chain is as sturdy as the lock.

"That's some hefty security," I say.

I take a slow lap around the boathouse, trying to find the best way inside while minimizing evidence of my presence. The windows are locked from the inside. The dock isn't in the house, but off the side stretched over the water. One lap later I'm back at the padlock.

Time to break something. I return to the lowest window I can find; the same one I took the picture through and determine the best way to smash it. The window is two feet tall and two feet wide. A perfect square with four internal squares divided by a cross of treated wood.

I take off my shirt and wrap it around my hand several times. Gripping the excess and my gun, I deliver a firm punch, shattering the lower right quadrant. With space clear, I reach through window and unlock it. The I push it up and climb inside the boat house.

I holster my gun, put my shirt back on, and walk to the tarp. My fingers wrap around the cloth, and I hesitate. What happens if this is bullshit? What if it's a speed boat and I misinterpreted the shape? I take a deep breathe, exhale, and pull the tarp up.

1964 Buick Fucking Skylark. Metallic mint green paint with a white convertible top. I pull the tarp back far enough to reveal the driver's door and crack it open. The inside is relatively clean, so someone has been taking care of it.

The case of a saxophone is in the back seat. I find the handle to lower the front seat, and crawl into the back. On the case of the saxophone, is a small plaque. K Grossman. I also find a small box filled with tapes. Cassette tapes used in small handheld cameras. Nothing up until this point indicates she had tapes with her. They might not even be Katie's. On the floor behind the passenger seat is a black bag containing a video camera the tapes go to.

I exit the car and pull at the tarp until it is all the way off. I try the trunk, but's its locked. I return to the driver side, but do not see a trunk release button. Older car, not surprising. For several minutes I try to jimmy it, but not luck. Breaking into the trunk of cars is not a skill I possess.

At this point, I've done enough. I found the car in a place it has no earthly business being in. Someone will have some serious explaining to do. Something tells me Katie's body isn't far away either. The lake? Buried in the woods? I pull the tarp over the car and move toward the window I came through. At that moment, the chains start rattling. Someone is coming inside.

"Shit," I whisper to myself and try to time my exit with this person entrance. When the lock cracks open, I mask the noise of my departure with the chains being removed.

I press my back to the side and peer into the boathouse as the doors open. Mort Junior is here now and turns on a light with a string above the door to a single bulb. He places a single white lily on the center of the floor after removing the wilted petals and stem of a dead flower. The light hums in the room, and Junior slides the tarp off the car, but hesitates, as if the tarp isn't the way he left it. He looks around the room, and kind of shrugs it off.

He opens the door and reaches toward the back for the camera bag. He sits in the driver's seat and removes the camera from the bag, and then places the bag on the driver's seat. The camera is charged, and he flips open the side screen and hits play.

"My name is Katie Grossman," the camera says, and Junior smiles when she starts speaking. "I'm a pregnant sixteen-year-old runaway. I'm a cliché." I can hear the girl from the window, and her voice is oddly soothing. Full of life and happy, even with her circumstances.

"All my friends think I'm weird because I like eighties pop music..." she says, and Junior pauses the video. He turns straight to the window and I lean away. Did he hear me? I hear him exit the car, so I crawl on all threes under the window and around back.

"The fuck?" Junior says. He noticed the window was broken. I need to get out of here. When I'm clear out the back, I swing my leg back up toward the service road.

Junior killed her and kept everything as a fond memory. Maybe he regrets doing it, but he's the one with the car. I trip on that same tree root as those thoughts rush through my mind, and crash to the ground.

"Who's there?" Junior asks, and I scramble to the road. As I arrive, I see lights coming up the road, and wave my hands to flag them down. The car pulls to the side, and I see it's a dark colored Ford Bronco. The door opens, and I hear the Sheriff after he shines a light into my face.

"Sheriff?" I ask, squinting into the blinding light.

"Mr. Kramner?" Art says back. "Jesus, what the hell are you doing out here?" I could ask him the same thing, but he's likely on patrol.

"Going for a walk. You on patrol?" I ask.

"Little late for a walk, but why are you flagging me down?" he asks.

"You mind?" I ask. The light turns off, and it takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to darkness again. It starts in spots, but slowly returns to normal. "Got lost, hoping to find a ride back."

"What are you really doing out here son?" Art asks.

Do I admit it? Breaking and entering won't look too good regarding the sustainment of my investigator's license. Stephanie doesn't trust this man, but thus far, I haven't had a reason not to. He's helped me, but on the other hand, all the information he's managed to get me was just confirming things I already knew or suspected. Things that would make you look somewhere else for Katie Grossman.

"Running a lead. I know the last place Katie was known to be, was around the lodge," I say. Not entirely true, but I need the reason to be here.

"Not following you," Art says and closes the distance until he's in arms reach with his hand resting on his gun. "What's this all about? You taking a walk, or checking a lead. You're kind of all over the place."

"Both," I say.

"Just tell me what's going on. I'll help you."

"Katie Grossman's car is in the boathouse down the road," I say. I need to see his reaction. His head leans back like a flinch.

"Come again?" he asks.

"The Buick is in the boathouse," I say. He sighs while shaking his head. "Mort Junior is down there right now."

"Junior has her car? Show me."

Junior is still looking around the boathouse for me, and turns fast when he hears footsteps approaching. Art shines the light again, and Junior holds his hands to block the light.

"You want to explain yourself Morty?" Art asks, and Junior starts trembling. Art pulls his gun up and tells Junior to lead him to the front. When we arrive, he tells Junior to stay in place, as he examines the car. "The fuck is the matter with you?"

Junior is silent, his eyes turning to me in desperation. I don't understand his expression. Something is off, and I can't tell what it is. Is he warning me? I reach for my gun, but when I turn back to the Sheriff, his gun is aimed right at me.

"Don't even think about it," he says to me, and then turns to Junior. "We told you to get rid of the car. Does this look like getting rid of it?" Art asks. Who is we? "Now we got problems because you can't listen."

"Where is Katie?" I ask.

"You're ten years too late son," he says, then motions for Junior to take my gun. I raise my hands and let him do it. Not like I can kick him off, control it, and run. A few years ago, I had options. Not anymore.

"What now?" I ask. "Shoot me and bury me next to Katie?"

"I'm thinking about it," Art says. "Problem is, that's bloody, and that leaves evidence."

Art's been doing this awhile. He knows how investigations work and is careful because of it. Bullets and blood leave evidence. "Grab some rope, tie him down."