Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 Read online

  Resolution

  By Nick Adams

  Copyright © 2016 by Shawn Underhill

  This is a work of fiction. All rights reserved.

  1

  There were two kidnappers. A runner and a driver. Two grown men against a five-year-old boy.

  Hardly a fair deal.

  Jeremy Conner was oblivious. Sitting alone at a picnic table, he was playing with LEGOs while the two men watched him. Clueless. Unattended.

  Easy pickings.

  But Jeremy wasn’t completely alone. His picnic table was one of many scattered about Russell Pond Family Campground. Which meant there were people in neighboring campsites, people strolling along the access road, kids riding bikes. It was Memorial Day weekend and the grounds were near capacity.

  The day itself offered no hint of warning, no eerie sense of imminent danger. The afternoon was sunny and pleasant. Mild, not too hot. The air was cool under the shade of the trees and there was a light breeze blowing in off the forty-acre pond. Hardly a likely setting for a tragedy.

  But tragedies do occur, even in deceptively peaceful settings. That much I’ve learned for sure.

  The previous summer, Lucy Kurtz, just twenty-six months old, disappeared on a July night. The following morning the pond was scoured by divers, even though the water is clear enough to see the bottom from a canoe on a sunny day. The surrounding woods were combed by an army of guests turned volunteers, bolstered by the keen noses of several search and rescue dogs. An Amber Alert was issued. Missing flyers baring her picture were plastered all over the state.

  But no trace of Lucy was found.

  It was like she had simply vanished.

  It had happened right under my nose, a few hundred yards from my cabin door.

  Now Jeremy Conner was next in line.

  2

  I was holding down my recliner. Not reading or writing or doing anything useful. I was watching Seinfeld, to be honest. I needed the laughs. It was a holiday weekend. One of our busiest of the year. Which for me meant dealing with a myriad of guests and all of their varied problems, great and small.

  Cabin 8 has been mine for about nine years now. Nestled in the far back corner of the campground, it’s virtually identical to the seven cabins preceding it. The only obvious distinguishing factor is the bell suspended from a post at the end of the driveway.

  The bell itself is about six inches across at the bottom, so it’s fairly loud and deep when struck. A thin braided rope hangs from the clapper. Guests wishing to speak with me are encouraged via a small sign to briefly ring it to get my attention.

  Briefly.

  The bell started clanging about halfway through The Doorman episode, the one where Kramer invents the brazier for men, the Bro. I stopped laughing instantly and was on my feet within seconds. Partly out of a sense of duty. Partly because that bell drives me crazy. I killed the TV. Gathered my necessary gear and headed for the door.

  Most of our guests at Russell Pond are decent people who follow the rules. Most, not all. In every crowd there’s always a few special individuals acting like it’s their first day on earth. The type that can’t grasp the elementary concept of moderately decent behavior in public. Dealing with those sorts can be tricky. As a result of my experiences, I now wear a small camera on my chest during every serious interaction.

  People sometimes lie. Cameras never do.

  On my way through the kitchen I buckled the camera’s nylon harness across my chest and touched the power button to check the battery. All set. Then I looked over at Frank.

  “Saddle up, partner.”

  He said nothing in return. Just stood up and stretched and followed me out the screen door.

  Frank is a Leonberger. A giant dog named after a city in Germany. To me, he resembles a brown bear with a German shepherd’s dark muzzle. Weighing around two hundred pounds, he’s a massive hair factory with a mostly careless disposition. No prejudices and no insecurities. A great wingman and a great friend. Most guests enjoy him, and because he goes almost everywhere with me, he has plenty of chances to mix and mingle. He’s indifferent with introverts, but enjoys meeting outgoing folks as much as they enjoy meeting him. Especially when they have bacon and believe in the virtue of sharing.

  The screen door slapped shut behind us as we crossed the small porch. Frank took the lead while I secured my tool belt around my waist. A plain leather belt bearing holsters and sheaths for various affects. My favorite revolver. A nasty little stun gun. A huge bowie knife. And a roll of duct tape which hangs by a lanyard and attaches by a carabiner. All very useful tools, depending on the circumstances.

  And I usually carry a baseball bat over my shoulder. Or a golf club or an axe. Whichever I’m in the mood for.

  Better safe than sorry.

  I looked across the lawn toward the bell. Saw a woman beside the post. She was maybe fortyish. Blonde hair, slightly on the heavy side. Her arms were crossed and her face looked hard and red and angry. As Frank neared her, I watched her hard expression soften. Which told me that she was a kind person apart from her present anger.

  “Is he friendly?” she asked, extending a cautious hand.

  “Mostly.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Frank Slade.”

  By the time I reached them they were fast friends. The woman was scratching him with both hands. Frank was leaning right up against her, getting all he could get. Being that she was outweighed, the woman was having to do some footwork to keep her balance.

  “What a funny name you have, Frank,” she said.

  He panted in her face.

  “The name is from Scent of a Woman,” I said.

  She said, “Oh, I think I saw that a while back. Pacino, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “Good movie.”

  “Great movie.”

  She straightened up and faced me, keeping a hand in Frank’s plush mane. The ice was broken. Now we could get to business.

  “How can we help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” she answered.

  Which told me she didn’t have a simple question or an easy problem to solve. Which might be bad for me. Whatever her issue was, it was big enough to make her feel uncertain about getting a stranger involved.

  “You’re not bothering me,” I said. A little white lie.

  She nodded and took a breath. Looked down at Frank. Then back to me. The fire of her anger was cooling. Now she was uncertain more than anything.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  Skirting my question, she replied, “You’re the son of the owners, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I saw your picture in the office. And I saw you around yesterday. You’re a big guy.”

  True. I’m six foot four. Not extremely tall. But I am built large and strong. Long limbs, heavy bones. Like my father and most of the Warner men. Like I should be making my living as a blocking tight end in the NFL. In the winter, if I’m overeating or lifting weights, I’ll get up over three hundred pounds. In the summer I might get down to two eighty.

  She said, “I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  I said, “Let me warn you up front. I charge by the pound for heavy lifting.”

  She didn’t smile. Not even faintly. It was disappointing. A joke wasted. An investment with no return.

  I started to speak, but then she spoke up over me.

  “My husband just backhanded me across the face.”

  I nodded. Kept my expression neutral. Disputes between the opposing sexes were usually the worst to get involved in. I sidestepped a little and took a closer look at her face. She turned her head and pointed to t
he pink hue along her cheek and up to her temple. It hadn’t been much of a hit. Probably angered her more than anything.

  “See it?” she said.

  “I do. Is this normal?”

  “No, this is the first time. That’s why I’m so pissed off about it. I can’t believe he did that.”

  I said nothing. There was potentially serious work ahead of me. To her I was just a big guy standing there with a somewhat blank expression. But I was doing some serious thinking. Wondering what sort of guy I was about to confront.

  She said, “I was hoping you could talk some sense into him.”

  I said, “Doubtful.”

  “Could you try?”

  “Talking does little good. Besides, if he struck you, he broke our rules. That means he has to leave. Immediately. So the only talking I can do is to explain the situation to him.”

  She shook her head. Chewed on her lip. Took an agitated breath.

  “Those are the rules” I said. “Assault is unacceptable. It’s in the agreement you signed when you paid your rental fee.”

  “Neither of us read it,” she admitted.

  At least she was honest.

  “It’s in there,” I said. “And one of you signed it.”

  “I wasn’t planning on this happening.”

  “You don’t have to leave. Only he does.”

  “We’re married. We rode together.”

  “Where from?”

  “Connecticut. Long drive.”

  “Then you’ve got a problem.”

  “We paid for two nights. It’s only been one.”

  “Sorry. If he broke the rules, he has to go. That’s it.”

  She exhaled and said, “Can’t you talk to him?”

  “I’m not a counselor,” I informed her. “I’m a helper and a bouncer when necessary.”

  “But men listen to other men,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  “Not really. Usually they just argue. Whoever talks the toughest or hits the hardest wins. Then they go their separate ways.”

  “But Bobby won’t argue with you. You’re way bigger than him. And he’s older and out of shape. He’ll respect you. I know he will.”

  I thought about it as she stared at me. She seemed like a nice woman. And clearly she wasn’t ready to give up on the weekend and go home.

  “Is your husband drinking?” I asked.

  “Can’t you just threaten him? Maybe scare him a little?”

  “Is he drinking?” I asked again, a little firmer.

  She exhaled and said, “Rum and Coke. I tried to take it away from him and he smacked me.”

  “So he’s had a lot?”

  She nodded.

  “Then talking definitely won’t help.”

  “Can’t you try?”

  “No point. If he’s drunk, I might as well talk to this dog.”

  She sighed. Her shoulders heaved. She was disappointed. Then she looked at Frank again.

  “He’s a bear,” she said.

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “He seems it.”

  Frank thumped his bushy tail on the driveway when he heard good boy. Because he knows I’m bragging about him. And he knows it’s true.

  She said, “You must meet a lot of people here.”

  “We do.”

  “So you’re no stranger to dealing with problems.”

  “Nope.”

  “Problems like mine?”

  “All sorts.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “Most of our guests are great,” I told her. “But there’s always a few ass clowns in every crowd. If they’re allowed to stay, they end up bothering everyone else. That’s why we have a no tolerance policy for bad behavior. Our system favors decency over antagonism.”

  “So you’re bucking the modern trend?”

  “You got it.”

  “How’s it working out?”

  “Great for me. Total nightmare for troublemakers.”

  She fell silent. Stood there looking disappointed. Her arms were crossed again. Frank wasn’t getting any more attention.

  “Bob doesn’t always drink like this,” she said. “I guess he figures if he’s in the woods it doesn’t count.”

  I said, “That’s not how it works here. He has to leave. By choice or by force. That’s all that’s left up to him now.”

  “That idiot,” she muttered. “I should hit him back for ruining our weekend.”

  I couldn’t help but crack a smile. I liked her honesty and her fire. She wasn’t a doormat. Wasn’t accepting the situation as one. I extended my hand.

  “Evan Warner. Nice to meet you.”

  She forced a smile and said, “Linda Milton” as we shook. I was wearing my dirt bike gloves with padding on the knuckles. She gave them a quick look when she felt the traction on the palms, but didn’t say anything about them. Evidently she was too frustrated to care about my attire and weaponry.

  “Can’t you do something, Evan? I was really having a great time. It’s so pretty up here.”

  “I can call my uncle, the town cop. He can toss your husband in the county drunk tank for the night. That way you can enjoy your second night, while Bob snuggles up with some other drunk. You can pick him up tomorrow on your way home.”

  “He deserves it,” she said under her breathe.

  I kept quiet. She needed a moment to work things out for herself.

  “But I don’t want to camp alone,” she said next.

  “You’re not alone. Make friends with your neighbors. Roast some marshmallows and relax. Plenty of these people are friendly and talkative.”

  “But then I’ll have to lie about what happened. Everyone will see if the cop takes him away. I’ll look pathetic.”

  I shrugged. Didn’t know what else to say. I felt bad for her but there really wasn’t anything I could do. Her husband was a problem awaiting removal. That was the bottom line.

  “Can’t you just talk to him?” she asked again. “Please?”

  I said, “Talking to drunks accomplishes nothing. Believe me. I’ve tossed hundreds of guys out of here over the years. Maybe a thousand.”

  Linda sighed. For a moment it appeared she had given up. But then her face suddenly lit up.

  “Go smack him,” she whispered. Like a secret. Even though no one but Frank was in sight.

  I said, “Excuse me?”

  “Smack him,” she said. “Just once or twice. With an open hand. Tell him to behave and you’ll be watching him. I’ll dump out all his rum. Once he starts sobering up, he’ll behave himself. I know he will. I know the man well.”

  “I can’t be the first one to swing at someone, Linda.” I was holding back a smile. Pointing to the little camera on my chest.

  “Is it turned on?”

  “No. But I have to turn it on while I’m kicking people out. Keeps me in the clear.”

  “Keep it off,” she whispered. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I gave it some serious thought. Maybe she knew what she was talking about. Maybe her husband would settle down after a few brisk slaps. Just the fact that it was her idea made me like her and want to help her.

  “Really,” she said. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Promise?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t burn me, Linda.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I’m doing you a favor. Not many people get favors. If you burn me I’ll call my uncle and you’re both out of here.”

  She made a gesture indicating that her lips were zipped. Then she smiled.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  We started off walking. Me and Linda and Frank, going to teach Bobby to behave.

  ***

  By then the kidnappers were about a mile away. They were talking to my father at the entrance of the campground. Asking questions and pretending to be interested in reserving a tent site.

  3

  “Is all that stuff necessary?”
Linda asked. “The huge gun and the knife and all?”

  “I’ve rarely had to use any of it,” I told her.

  “Then why carry it?”

  “I believe in confronting antagonists with overwhelming force. They see this stuff and have to wonder who they’re dealing with.”

  “It works?”

  “Nine out of ten end up backing down. Packing their crap and hitting the road.”

  “What about the one that doesn’t back down?”

  “Best case scenario, they get to see the inside of the Saulsbury Police cruiser. Worst case, the ambulance. And then the nearest emergency room.”

  “So you do use that stuff?”

  I shook my head. “Usually fists and feet are all I need. Occasionally a bat, if I’m outnumbered.”

  “So the camera proves you didn’t start the fights?”

  “Yeah, I never start them. Just finish.”

  “Is the gun real?”

  I looked at her.

  “Seriously,” she said.

  “You think I’d carry a toy gun?”

  “Well, it looks way bigger than a cowboy gun.”

  “It is bigger. And more powerful. It’s a Five Hundred Magnum.”

  “Whatever that means,” she said.

  “Basically it makes Dirty Harry’s forty-four look a training pistol. Which it’s definitely not.”

  She laughed and said, “Well, you won’t need any of that stuff to intimidate my Bob. Trust me on that.”

  I said, “Did you know that Wyatt Earp used to hit people with his gun?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. He used the long barrel to bludgeon people. He pistol-whipped way more people than he shot.”

  “Please don’t whip Bob. I’m mad at him, but I still love the fool.”

  I assured her that I was only making friendly conversation. She didn’t run away screaming, so I could only assume that she believed me.

  We neared their tent site and I got my first look at Bob. A fortyish guy with thinning brown hair. Disheveled tan shorts and a dark polo. His porky frame was wedged into a narrow folding chair. The kind with wobbly plastic legs that’s usually branded with beer logos. Slouching forward, he was pondering a blue plastic cup of rum and Coke. Corn syrup and alcohol. A cocktail of ethanol and insulin. Not conducive to healthy brain activity.