Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 Read online

  I waited a moment before saying, “Any idea when Jared or Seth will be back?”

  “Probably long after I’ve locked up and gone to bed.”

  Shit. Saturday night and they were probably out stealing more dogs. Or fighting dogs.

  Very quietly the old woman said, “You’re not in their sort of business, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then my assumption was correct. You’re not the sort to be mixed up in their mess. So what could you possibly want with them?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure if I was being played by a nosy old woman. She might be loyal to the Bensons. Or she might have nothing else to do but talk to random people passing by. She didn’t strike me as a liar. But I couldn’t be sure. Her lack of body language made her a difficult person to read.

  “I don’t approve of them,” she finally said.

  That was enough for me. There was truth in her tone.

  “You’re not the first one I’ve heard that from,” I said.

  “The men they’ve become are nothing like the boys they once were. So if you’re looking to do business with the Benson boys, I’ll ask you kindly to be on your way.”

  To hell with it, I thought, and decided to speak the truth.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a missing dog. On behalf of a friend. Rumor has it that this is the place to start looking.”

  She was nodding slowly before I finished.

  “These boys always have dogs,” she muttered. “Different dogs all the time. Other people’s dogs. There’s always something going on.”

  “What do you think of that?”

  “Shameful,” she answered. “They were raised better than that.”

  “Do they trust you?”

  “Always have. No reason not to. But if I hadn’t known them all their lives, I wouldn’t trust them for a second.”

  “So they are a problem?”

  “About the worst problem on this street.”

  “What would you say if I told you that I’m looking to put a stop to their operation?”

  “Someone ought to,” she said. “Unfortunately, apathy reigns in this neighborhood these days.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Long enough to see it deteriorate,” she answered.

  I nodded.

  “I came here in nineteen seventy. Twenty-one years old. A world away from Vietnam. Married myself an American boy with a good heart and a mind to making a good life for us. And that he did, as best he could. Things were okay for a long time. We were well into the eighties before things started going downhill around here. Went from bad to worse. My husband passed nearly four years ago now. It was bad enough then. It’s worse now.”

  I said, “Sorry.” Didn’t know what else to say.

  After a pause she asked, “What are you planning?”

  I hesitated. It didn’t feel quite right to just come out and say I was planning on handling them like a wrecking ball handles an old building. Like a steamroller handles fresh pavement.

  “Never mind, young man. It’s probably best that you don’t tell me. In fact, I don’t even want to know your name.”

  I nodded. It was probably for the best.

  Then the sound of approaching footsteps kept us both silent. I held perfectly still in the shadow of the porch as two people passed. Two teenagers. A boy and a girl. They were talking and walking briskly. Not paying attention to anything other than themselves. They were well up the street before I spoke again.

  I asked, “Any idea when they’ll be home?”

  “Likely late.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some friendly advice,” she said. “Don’t spend a lot of time walking up and down this street. You stand out. Outsiders always do. And officer Randal will eventually be by. He’ll take notice.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A friend to all that’s wrong with this side of town, hiding behind a badge. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “It’s good of you to warn me.”

  She leaned forward in her chair so that her face was over the porch railing.

  “I don’t know if it’s good or not. All I know is that I’m tired of things as they are. It hurts to watch one’s community fall apart this way.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “That’s sort of how I got involved. I’m tired of a few things myself.”

  “One more thing. The older boy, Jared, is the brain. The younger one, Seth, is bigger. About your size, I’d guess. He’s dangerous in a way, but in the end he’s only a follower. Been following his older brother since he could walk. Jared is the slippery one. Certainly the more dangerous of the two. Don’t trust him. And don’t turn your back on him for a second.”

  I nodded. Thanked her.

  “I’m old and I don’t need any trouble,” she said next. “You can understand why I’ll deny ever speaking with you, if it should ever come up.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “I need to search the place. Make sure I’m on the right trail.”

  “Try the back door,” she whispered. “They always bring dogs through that back door. The basement door is just across from it. I’ve watched them from my kitchen window plenty of times. Never once have I seen them use a key. For all I know, they lost it years ago. Too lazy to get a new one cut.”

  I thanked her again and then walked up the driveway in the dark.

  It was an easier start than I’d expected.

  The worst was yet to come.

  14

  In the dark I stood absolutely still. Looking. Listening. The yards along Bow Street were mostly visible to an extent from each neighboring house. There were fences and some shabby shrubs and small trees. There was an old junk car behind the house and not much else. The back steps were narrow and partially rotted. The back door was half glass and the glass looked hazy and dirty. Nothing about the place or the yard had been cared for in quite some time. The old woman was right. Apathy seemed to reign.

  Carefully I went up the steps and tried the door. It was unlocked. It creaked open a few inches, and then I stood there for a moment, frozen in a sort of limbo.

  I thought about Simon the boxer. He wasn’t my dog. This wasn’t my house or my town. None of it was my problem or my business. I had my own life and business to manage and maintain. I was a writer who wasn’t writing enough. An employee of a family business. Holiday weekends can be very stressful for my parents. They relied on me to be there for them. From a practical point of view, there was enough on my plate as it was. I didn’t need to wade into someone else’s mess. And this certainly was shaping up to be a hot mess.

  But then my thoughts shifted. I remembered Kendra. How obviously distraught she was over Simon. He was a part of her family. A friend she obviously relied on to help her in her difficult situation. I thought of a goofy, friendly dog being tortured. Thought of what sort of people get their kicks from that kind of thing. A little filmstrip of memories passed through my mind. Facebook posts about abused animals. Humane Society ads showing dirty and starved animals. Creatures purposely born and bred to depend on humans, only to be failed by them. I thought of victims and victimizers and the vast gulf between those types of people. How many victimizers could there be in the world? And how many of them cruised along easily without ever running into serious opposition? How many of them ever ran into someone like me?

  What would Clint Eastwood do?

  I stepped into the house. Turned and shut the door behind me. I was inside before I could change my mind. Literally and figuratively beyond the point of turning back. The greater problems of the larger world were beyond my reach. But this problem before me now was no reach at all. I was right in the middle of it. If no one stepped up to the plate and did something, nothing would change. Someone had to act. Might as well be me. I was cut out for it.

  Clint would be proud.

  The house was pitch dark. The only light was the faint
glow of street lights around the outline of window blinds through the dirty glass. The first breath I drew made me regret my decision. It smelled terrible. Beyond terrible. It was a thick stench that made it hard to breathe. Worse than a barn. The smell of years and years of accumulated filth and carelessness. A gas mask would’ve been nice. But even that might have failed to make it tolerable.

  The basement door was directly across from the back door. Just like the old woman had said. I went over to it using the lock screen of my phone as a dim flashlight. Turned the knob and let the door pop open.

  I was rewarded with a wave of an even worse stench. It was brutal. Like being physically struck by an invisible fist. It was the smell of a damp basement, mold and mildew. Wet dogs and bodily waste. Rotten food and possibly death. It was like everything terrible in the world had teamed up to form one super stench. It wafted up through the open doorway and joined forces with the upstairs stench.

  I stepped back for a moment to gather my resolve. Cursed the Bensons silently with every insult I could muster. Lifted my shirt over my nose for a few deep breaths. Nausea is a nasty little enemy. Invisible but very formidable. It can’t be overcome by strength and might alone. Only the mind can disarm it by actively willing itself to ignore it.

  I was at a crossroads. An unpleasant one at that. Plenty of horror movies involve dark houses and nasty basements. And they never end well. I certainly wasn’t going to find Martha Stewart down there, baking cookies. That was a very sure bet. At that point a self-respecting Sasquatch would’ve run away holding its nose. But not me. I resolved to stick to my plan and forge ahead.

  Moving down onto the first two basement steps, I turned and closed the door behind me. Then used my phone to search for a light switch. I found it and flicked it. The open space below lit up. The stairwell remained fairly dark. I could just see that the door and the entire stairwell were completely covered in foam insulation. It was the kind applied to a house before vinyl siding. The stairwell seemed very narrow. I guessed the foam insulation might be two layers thick for soundproofing purposes. It certainly trapped odors well.

  Down into the dungeon I descended. Dreading what I might find. The space below came slowly into view. Judging by the smell I expected to see a dead dog. Thankfully I didn’t. I found no dogs at all, living or dead. Just five empty cages. Not plastic kennels. At the end of a row of four cages stood a much larger metal cage. It looked to have been fashioned out of the components of multiple smaller cages. Maybe it was a larger space for a favored dog to reside in. Or an improvised ring for practice fights. I didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

  I looked around at the rest of the basement. It was damp and musty and poorly lit from two naked bulbs. Aside from a furnace and a small workbench at one side, the rest of the space seemed devoted to being a canine prison. The small windows in the cement foundation were painted over with black spray paint. All the walls and the ceiling were tightly insulated, trapping all sounds and smells. There were shelves with bags of cheap dog food. There were choke chains and leashes and a few muzzles hanging from nails driven into the wooden shelves. There were stains on the floor, some so dark that I assumed them to be blood. The grit on the floor reminded me of kitty litter. Or some sort of drying agent. Which made me think they were definitely trying to cover something. There was assorted junk and trash stacked here and there. Dirty blankets and old clothes. In short, John Wayne Gacy’s sort of playground.

  There was no sign of Simon the boxer. Therefore there was no point in prolonging my own misery. So I went back up the stairs. Shut off the light. Went through the basement door. Took a breath of the slightly cleaner air. Tried to ignore the taste of filth settling in the roof of my mouth.

  Using my phone again for a light, I checked around the rest of the house. The kitchen was a hopeless disaster. The rest of the place wasn’t far behind. Most of the shades were drawn and there were no curtains. The furniture was old and ratty. No one had cared for anything in a very long time. Apathy surely reigned supreme.

  It was a creaky old place. I kept stopping and listening to make absolutely sure that I was alone. Now and then a car would pass by and the headlight glow would move through the rooms. Twice I heard muffled voices passing by on the sidewalks. Both times I held my breath until the voices passed.

  On the second floor I found two bedrooms. One larger and one smaller, with a bathroom in between. In the smaller bedroom there was nothing of interest. I wasn’t about to search through closets and drawers. That would require some kind of full-body condom for my own protection.

  In the larger room I found a huge pile of dirty clothes. It smelled like a locker room. There was a Scarface poster on one wall. Classic wannabe cliché. A total disgrace to Mr. Pacino. There was a pipe on a dresser and an ashtray on a table by the bed. It was full of cigarette butts and it smelled like used weed.

  Under the little table I noticed a small desktop safe. I knelt down and checked it. The lid was locked. There was no dial for a combination. Just a keyhole. The key I soon discovered was resting openly on the table beside the ashtray. Pure genius. The ghostly light of my phone made the key almost glow. It practically called here I am.

  I opened the safe and found two boxes of .38 caliber ammo, as well as an impressive stack of cash. At a glance there were a lot of hundreds, in addition to a decent amount of smaller bills. It must have been eight or ten grand. A sizable amount of cash by most standards. Much more than a piggy bank amount.

  “Jackpot,” I whispered and pocketed the wads of cash. Then I pocketed the little key. Placed the safe as I’d found it and left the room.

  In the bathroom I took notice of the sink. Initially because it was vintage and reminded me of the sink in my grandparents’ Colonial house. Upon closer inspection I realized just how filthy it was. I couldn’t believe that it actually functioned. It was caked with fuzzy scum and was rusty and the bottom had a puddle of standing brown water. Age and neglect and decades of clogs left it unable to completely drain.

  I retrieved the little safe key from my pocket. Dropped it down the drain. Pushed the stopper lightly with my pinky, so that it was blocking the drain while appearing to not have been deliberately inserted. Then I turned on the cold water. The pressure was low, but soon enough the shallow sink began to fill. I lowered the stream to halfway and stood back once it began to overflow.

  It was a prick move. No excuses. My thought was that maybe one brother would blame the other for forgetting to turn off the water. But really it didn’t matter. They could ignore their own mess. They could get used to that. But they couldn’t ignore a waterfall cascading down the stairs. Their discomfort was my primary objective. When it came time for me to confront them, they’d be annoyed and frustrated. Which played into my favor.

  I went back downstairs and outside and took a huge breath of fresh air. The stench of their house was trapped in my nose. But still the outside air was a vast improvement. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth to combat the mild nausea.

  The old woman was still sitting on her porch when I went down the drive. It looked like she hadn’t moved since I’d spoken with her. I hoped she hadn’t. I didn’t want to see flashing blue lights coming in my direction.

  She said, “I guess you didn’t find your dog.”

  “Not exactly. But they certainly are keeping dogs.”

  She nodded. “Should I expect to see you again?”

  “I’ll be back for sure.”

  “Be careful. You’re playing with fire with these two.”

  I grinned and said, “Thanks for your concern.”

  “I’m not playing,” she said.

  “Neither am I. Life is about to get very hard for the Benson brothers.”

  She hesitated before whispering, “You’re not going to kill them, are you?”

  “Doubtful. Just make them wish they were dead. If they choose to kill themselves, that’s their call.”

  She was quiet. After a moment I took the wad of c
ash from my coat pocket and peeled off a grand and set the pile of bills on the porch railing. The old woman glanced from the cash to me.

  I said, “Consider it a parting gift for having to endure nasty neighbors.”

  “That’s their money?”

  “It was.”

  “I can’t take it. It’s dirty money.”

  “Do something good with it.”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered.

  “Drop it in a donation box if you want, it’s up to you. Makes no difference to me.”

  Finally she nodded and said, “You take good care of yourself.”

  I said, “Same to you.”

  “I really mean it. Be very careful, young man. These aren’t good people.”

  I thanked her again for her genuine concern. Said good night and walked back to my van.

  15

  Frank was anxiously awaiting my return.

  “Who’s a good boy?” I asked, sliding into the van.

  He thumped his tail like a hammer and made Chewbacca sounds.

  I peeled off my gloves, turning them inside out. Balled them up and tossed them in the trash bag on the passenger floor. Then I gave my overeager sidekick a good scratching as he forced his way between the front seats. I told him he was good for waiting patiently. He panted his replies. It almost sounded like he was saying, “Yeah. Ha-ha. Yeah.”

  Then his glee gave way to curiosity. He commenced to giving me a thorough inspection. He sniffed and blew out the strange odors clinging to me from the house of horrors. Judging by his face, he didn’t like the smell of dogs and death and filth. It must have been worse for him. His nose is a hundred thousand times more capable than mine. Humans might smell spaghetti sauce simmering, for instance, while dogs can distinguish each individual ingredient.

  “Sorry, man,” I said, and set him at ease with more scratches and a treat. All in all it was a nice little bonding session before getting on the road.

  But we didn’t go straight home. Because obsession is a powerful force. Almost as irresistible as magnetism.