Death Falls (27 page)

The glimpse of the boy’s face had been brief. A few seconds, tops. But it was enough. She now knew what the Santangelos had been hiding all those years. She also knew who had been with Lee that night, and his name was Burt Hammond.

Nick was in the car when he got a phone call from Tony Vasquez. Since holding the phone with one hand and steering with the other was a recipe for disaster, he waited to answer until he was safely stopped on the side of the road. He switched off the CD player—“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” in honor of his new forensic anthropologist friend—and picked up the phone.

“What’s up?”

“Dental records gave us a positive ID of the body under the mill,” Tony said. “It’s Noah Pierce.”

“How does Lucy think he died?”

“She can’t be sure,” Tony said. “After a more thorough examination of the remains, her best guess is that he was strangled to death. Anything more violent most likely would have left some trace on the bones, not to mention blood in the mill itself, which would have been seen by police at the time. And you and I both ruled out accidental drowning.”

So a stranger hadn’t lured Noah into the mill and then into a car, whisking him away from his grandparents. Instead, the sick fuck had strangled the boy right there in the mill, most likely before anyone realized he was gone. An open trapdoor and a dumped body later, and one nine-year-old kid was gone forever.

“Why was Noah holding Dennis Kepner’s toy rocket?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Tony said. “What do you think?”

“That Dennis had it with him when he was snatched from the park,” Nick said. “The perp then used it to lure Noah into the mill.”

Tony took a stab at humor to lighten the mood. “Do you always have to show me up?”

“You can tell Gloria it was your idea,” Nick said.

“What about the camp Dwight Halsey vanished from? Dig up anything useful there?”

Nick briefly recounted his talk with Craig Brewster and the strange, sad story of Camp Crescent, including how the police and the owner automatically assumed Dwight had met his fate in the surrounding forest. When he was finished, Tony asked, “And what’s your opinion?”

“That he might have died in the woods, but at the hands of someone else.”

It was becoming all too clear that was how most, if not all, of the crimes occurred. Nick no longer suspected someone abducting the boys and holding them captive for days. He assumed they were all killed quickly, perhaps right where the culprit found them. The only incident that didn’t back up that theory was Dennis Kepner’s disappearance. Nick chalked that one up to the killer knowing that neighbors could be watching.

“Listen,” Tony said, “it’s still pretty crazy where I’m at. The press got wind of the body and want some explanation. Gloria is hounding me about it, too. Oh, and get this, I just got word from the police in Fairmount. There was a whole other file on Dennis Kepner that they failed to tell me about.”

“What’s in it? Anything new?”

Tony let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re assuming I got a chance to look at it already. How did you do this job and not go crazy?”

“Screw Gloria,” Nick advised. “Throw something small to the newshounds. They’ll gnaw on it for a day or so. But check the new Kepner file. I’ll track down Bucky Mason’s father and see what he remembers.”

He was hoping to sneak that in without the overwhelmed lieutenant noticing. No such luck.

“Nick, maybe I should send a trooper there instead. Gloria—”

“What did I just tell you about that?”

“That’s easier said than done,” Tony said. “She’s still my boss. And she’ll be mad as hell if she finds out you’re interviewing family members as part of this investigation.”

“Fine,” Nick replied. “Send a trooper. But whoever it is will have to drive pretty fast.”

“Goddamn it, Donnelly. Are you already there?”

Nick wasn’t. But he sure was close. He estimated he was only a few miles outside Centralia.

“Just let me talk to him. We’re both on the same side here. We both want to find out what happened to the boys and who did it. I want to do my part.”

“Fine,” Tony said. “But be professional.”

“Hey, I’m always professional.”

Lieutenant Vasquez couldn’t help but chuckle. “Nick, you weren’t professional even when you were a professional.”

When the call was over, Nick edged back onto the road and contemplated the GPS system built into the dashboard of his car. It disagreed with his assessment that Centralia was close by. According to its map, there was nothing up ahead. No roads. No buildings. Nothing. But Vinnie Russo, Nick’s source, didn’t lie. If he said Bill Mason Sr. was alive, well, and living in Centralia, then it was a certified fact.

He hoped.

The second signal that something was amiss came a mile down the road, when Nick saw a sign warning motorists of hazardous smoke and toxic fumes in the vicinity. The odor was next—a foul mixture of smoke and sulfur that smelled simultaneously of cigarette butts and rotting eggs. Gagging, Nick closed the windows and shut off the air conditioning. It was of no use. The stench had already invaded the interior of the car.

A half mile later, the smoke welcomed him to Centralia. It was an insidious cloud that sprouted on the side of the road and snaked through a forest of dead trees for as far as Nick could see. Occasional tentacles wafted across the road like fog banks, and Nick had to slow down as he drove through them.

Emerging on the other side of the smoke, he saw that the road swerved sharply to the right. Directly ahead was another road, although a concrete barrier prevented him from driving on it. Even if the roadblock hadn’t been there, a large fissure in the road would have stopped him. Roughly three feet wide, it stretched down the entire length of asphalt, turning most of the road into rubble. Occasional wisps of smoke rose from the crevasse.

Nick had no choice but to turn right, which led to more smoke and dead trees. He eventually passed a gated cemetery, smoke twisting among the graves. It made Nick think of hell on Earth, and he whispered a prayer for the poor souls who had been buried there.

The smoke eventually cleared. The sulfurous stench did not. Nick could still smell it, thick in the air all around him. He studied his surroundings, trying to get his bearings. What he saw was a town that looked as if it had been wiped off the map. Rolling down streets that contained no houses, Nick saw hints that someone had once lived there. Stop signs stood sentinel at the corners. A bit of driveway, slowly succumbing to weeds, led to an open field. At another bare lot, a mailbox, flag up and door down, waited for a delivery that would never come.

When Nick glanced left, he saw the steeple of a church just above the trees. He veered the car in its direction, hoping it would lead him to someplace occupied. But when he reached the church, he realized that God—and his followers—had abandoned it long ago. Weeds blocked the front door, which had been padlocked, and a gaping hole marred the roof. The cross had fallen off the steeple and was now sunk upside down in the ground next to the church itself. Hell on Earth indeed.

Moving past the church, Nick finally caught sight of a house. Well, half a house. What had once been a duplex was now only a single unit—a tall and ridiculously narrow structure colored dark gray by the smoke. One side appeared normal, with windows, shutters, and a single chimney sprouting from the roof. The other side had no windows, just an expanse of vinyl siding and what appeared to be five exposed chimneys rising to the eaves. They were brick support beams, Nick realized, built to keep the house standing when its other half had been torn down.

He idled in front of the house a moment, taking it all in. There was no mailbox out front, nor was there a number next to the door. But someone still lived there. An American flag hung from the porch railing. Below it, leaning against the foundation, was a message that had been spray-painted on plywood.
DON’T BOTHER US!

Nick didn’t really have a choice. Either it was the home of Bill Mason Sr. or that of someone who might be able to point him in the right direction. He just hoped whoever lived there didn’t own a shotgun. He’d seen enough of those for one day.

Hopping onto the porch, he was about to knock when a voice rose from the other side of the door. It was a woman’s voice, old but firm and full of spitfire.

“Whoever you are should read the sign and go the hell back to wherever you came from.”

“I’m not here to bother you,” Nick said. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

“Are you with the government?”

“No. I’m working with the state police. I’m looking for information about a boy who vanished from here in 1972.”

The door swung open immediately, revealing a short woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was gray, her face weathered and hard.

“Which boy?” She looked up at Nick with eyes the same color as steel. “Frankie or Bucky?”

Perry Hollow’s town hall was a building with delusions of grandeur. Sitting squat and heavy at the end of Main Street, it looked far more important than it really was. Kat was all for imposing architecture, if it was warranted. But running up the hall’s marble steps, she knew that a building devoted to waste management and dog licenses didn’t warrant Corinthian columns.

The mayor’s office was on the second floor, forcing Kat to climb more steps with a half-spooled film reel under her arm. But since it was a lazy Friday morning, no one was around to notice the strip of celluloid curling from her armpit. Chalk one up for bureaucracy.

When she hit the second floor, Kat turned left and entered the mayor’s office. The tiny waiting area bearing the American and Pennsylvania flags was empty. So was the receptionist’s desk, which allowed Kat to march into Burt’s inner sanctum and toss the reel of film onto his desk.

Burt looked up, startled. “What the hell is this?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

“No.

Most of the film had come unspooled and curled across his desk blotter. Kat grabbed a section and stretched it taught in front of Burt’s face. “Let me refresh your memory.”

The mayor squinted, eyeing the frames one by one. It only took three to make his face go white. By the time he saw a fourth, Burt Hammond looked like he was about to puke.

“Where did you get this?”

“You know where,” Kat said. “And I think you know when it was filmed.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was July 1969. The night Charlie Olmstead disappeared. You were there, Burt. On his street. Now, you’re going to tell me what you saw that night or this film will be on YouTube by the end of the day.”

Burt remained silent. The only sound he made was a slight gurgle as he swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, Kat saw only the whites. His pupils had rolled back into his head as he slumped forward.

Kat rushed to his side and tried to keep him upright. Instead, Burt listed to the right and fell out of his chair, taking her with him. When they thudded to the floor, it became clear to Kat what happened.

The mayor of Perry Hollow had passed out.

Eric knew he wouldn’t be welcomed by Becky Santangelo. Other than Kat, he was probably the last person she wanted to see. Yet there he was, standing at her front door, rapping on it with the brass knocker.

When Becky answered, Eric nodded politely. “May I come in?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

She wore a black designer sweatsuit, made for someone far younger, that hugged her buttocks and pushed up her breasts. Although she had made sure to do her hair and makeup, she still looked exhausted. Her eyes were sunken and ringed by dark circles—the look of someone who was bone-tired.

“I just wanted to thank you for trusting me with that home movie,” Eric said.

Becky’s shoulders lifted into a weary shrug. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“You didn’t. Still, it must have been hard for you. And I just wanted to let you know that your secret is safe with me.”

To Eric’s surprise, Becky emerged from the house and lowered herself onto the porch steps. She patted the empty space next to her, urging him to sit.

“I saw you smoking on your porch this morning,” she said. “Care to let a neighbor bum one?”

Eric produced two cigarettes. He lit Becky’s first and then his own. After a minute of silent smoking, she said, “I should have just told the truth a long time ago.”

“I understand why you didn’t. It would have destroyed your husband’s career.”

Becky let out a quick laugh that was startling in its bitterness. “He should have thought about that before filming himself screwing around with those boys.”

“So there were more of them?”

“A few,” Becky said. “Movies, that is. Only the Lord and Lee know how many boys there were. I found the film reels decades ago. Lee had locked them in a trunk in the attic. I think he forgot they were even there.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

Becky shook her head. “There wasn’t any point. We were your typical married couple. Lee was the solid, upstanding citizen with secrets. I was the dutiful wife who pretended I didn’t know about them.”

Instead, Eric knew, she continued dressing up. And decorating. And adding more framed photographs to the cluttered wall of Lee’s trophy room.

“But you knew even before you found the home movies, didn’t you?” he asked. “You knew the moment my mother said she saw a woman in your bedroom window.”

He watched Becky closely while what began as a slow shake of her head transformed into a nod.

“I guess I did,” she said.

“Did you ever think about leaving him?”

“Of course,” Becky said as she exhaled a long stream of smoke. “But as the years passed, I came to understand that marrying Lee Santangelo was my only real accomplishment. Other than being a beauty queen, I had no skills and no money of my own. If I divorced him, I’d have nothing. So I stayed. Even more, I made it my goal to preserve his name. It’s all I’ve got left.”

Eric realized he preferred this version of Becky Santangelo to the strident woman he had always known. It made him wish he had grown up seeing this Mrs. Santangelo, instead of the cold stranger who lived across the street.