LeGarde Mysteries Box Set Page 5

  I grabbed my parka and car keys and slipped out the door.

  Chapter 12

  The clock on the dash flipped to five-fifteen when I turned down the road to Baxter’s house. I rounded the curve and saw the beat-up Dodge Omni was gone.

  I cruised past the driveway and stared in the windows. The lights were on in most of the rooms, in spite of the fact that Baxter was out. I made a K-turn a half-mile past the house and drove back again, wondering if someone or something was still crying inside.

  I can’t park near the house. If he comes back and sees the car, he’ll go ballistic.

  Ideas sizzled through my brain. I drove home and parked near the barn where I’d stored my ski apparel. After changing into my woolen socks, waterproof pants, and ski boots, I stowed my skis and poles in the car. I got back in, closing the door softly. I didn’t want to explain to the family that I planned to trespass onto Baxter’s property and unwrap the mystery of that tiny sob.

  Within minutes I’d pulled along Twin Bridge Road where Freddie had rescued us the previous morning. Coasting a bit farther, I stopped near a dense patch of pines. The car would be invisible from Baxter’s house, in spite of the fact that a full moon silvered the snow in the field I planned to cross. I glanced around and snapped into my skis. The light from the flour-white moon bounced off the snow pack. Tree branches snapped in the frigid wind, causing black shadows to twist across the glassy field.

  I glided over to the passenger side of the Volvo and popped open the glove box, pocketing my multi-purpose Leatherman tool. On impulse, I grabbed my cell phone and shoved it in my pocket.

  After closing and locking the car, I skied across the gully on the side of the road and slid down the steep hill that merged with the field. Following the well-broken trails I’d made the day before, I made my way toward Baxter’s house. The tracks had solidified and were dusted with a half-inch of fluffy new snow. I moved smoothly over the terrain. Within fifteen minutes, I’d crossed the massive fields and slid to a stop behind a thicket of blue spruce trees on the corner of Baxter’s place.

  I laid my skis and poles on the ground and kicked them under a wide spruce branch. Creeping around the windbreak, I peered into the driveway. The car was still gone.

  I followed my footprints from the day before, cut along the back of the building, and flattened myself against the aluminum siding. The smell of wood smoke filled the air, puffing from the round steel pipe in the roof. I shuddered, feeling visible in the moonlight, then took several deep breaths and forced myself to relax.

  He’s not home. Just take a quick look.

  Standing on my toes, I peered in the kitchen window. The light was on in the adjoining living room, illuminating twelve boxes of macaroni and cheese lining the shelf beside the stove. The same trash bags as the day before lay next to the refrigerator, and more dishes had been piled on the counters around the sink next to an empty Jack Daniels bottle. I noticed three police scanners blinking red lights from the bookcase in the living room. I hadn’t seen them before, because they were behind the door Baxter had guarded. Also behind the door stood a tall shotgun, and a black holster and revolver hung from a nearby hook.

  Disappointed I didn’t see any evidence to support my suspicions, I moved to another window, this time stepping on an upturned bucket to get a better view.

  The bed barely fit inside the narrow room. Clothes draped over chairs and lay in a heap on the floor. Crumpled cigarette packs littered piles of unwashed dishes beside the bed. I strained to see the titles on magazines stacked nearby, and after a moment's concentration made out two titles: Soldier of Fortune and Playboy. Not surprising.

  I worked my way to the opposite end of the house, staying in the back to avoid detection if Baxter suddenly returned.

  The next window revealed a bathroom. Although darker than the other rooms because its door was closed, a nightlight glowed from an outlet beside the sink, illuminating articles on the porcelain. A black comb, a bottle of Excedrin, a crumpled towel, a bottle of liquid dishwashing detergent, and a clear drinking glass cluttered the sink. I looked closer, and saw the glass was a toothbrush holder. My heart thumped faster. Two toothbrushes stood in the glass. The tall adult toothbrush leaned next to a child’s toothbrush.

  Cold adrenaline rushed through my body. There is a child in the house.

  I moved to the last window. It had been boarded over with a large piece of plywood and was secured on all four corners by wood screws. I pulled off my glove and took out the Leatherman tool. The cold metal joints resisted when I pried out the screwdriver and began to untwist the screws. By the time I’d removed the first one my hand was a block of ice. I reached for my glove, and dropped the screw into the snow.

  Damn.

  I felt for the screw in the crusty snow. Finally my fingers closed around it and I stuffed my hand and the screw into my pocket, waiting for the throbbing in my stiff fingers to subside. I put the glove back on, afraid I’d get frostbite, and then clumsily removed two more screws.

  I swung the panel down, but needed more height to see over the plywood. Using the bucket again, I looked inside.

  The boy lay shackled to the bedpost, his left leg locked in adult-sized handcuffs. He faced a small television set with a blue screen. A movie had popped out of the ancient VCR. The thin child seemed to be around four or five. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and red sneakers. I couldn’t see his face, but his black curly hair was cut raggedly above his ears.

  Anger pooled in my stomach. I had to get inside. I stopped when I realized I couldn’t carry the child while I skied back to the car. Oddly, the dilemma paralleled the situation of yesterday morning, when Siegfried carried the dog up the hill.

  This departure from my usual law-abiding behavior caused my heart to hammer against my ribs. I’d rarely broken the law, having only skirted against speed limits from time to time. And there was that one daring midnight raid on a blueberry farm when I was eleven. My life had been pretty tame. But tonight, the vision of the poor little child tethered to the footboard and the haunting sound of that single cry galvanized me into action.

  While I was formulating a plan, lights flickered from the road and Baxter drove into the driveway. I heard him bang the car door closed and stomp up to the house, muttering. I slammed the plywood panel back into place, struggling to reach one of the elusive screws that hid in the bottom of my parka pocket. With gloves on, it was impossible. I stood on the bucket, held the panel in place, and leaned against it, pulling off my glove with my teeth. Finally, I found one screw and started it in the hole after jiggling the plywood around until the hole in the board lined up with the hole in the window frame. I twisted the cold screw into the hole with my bare fingers, and heard Baxter plod into the boy’s room. His booming voice traveled easily through the thin wall.

  “Did you behave yourself this time? No more nutso escape tactics? You know you’d die out there, you idiot.”

  The furor built within me.

  The screw was back in the hole and would hold. I pulled my glove back on and listened.

  “I’ll take off the cuffs, but you stay put, understand? I’ll put your movie back on, and then you can have some mac ‘n cheese.”

  Either the child didn’t answer, or his little voice was too soft to be heard through the wall.

  “Fine. Don’t talk. Suits me just fine. But don’t think it’ll fool me next time someone comes around. You still get the duct tape.”

  Baxter coughed. I pictured him looking at the boy with his fish-cold glare. “I don’t know why the hell your freakin’ mother fought to keep you for five whole years. You are one screwed-up kid. I can’t believe you’re mine. Hell,” he snorted. “Maybe you aren’t.”

  I’d heard enough. I raced back to the trees where I’d stashed my equipment and slid the cell phone out of my pocket.

  Chapter 13

  I punched in the numbers with stiff fingers.

  “Nine-one-one emergency, what’s the nature of your problem?”

  I spoke softly, certain if Baxter was alerted he’d take off with the boy. “This is Gus LeGarde, from East Goodland. A child’s in serious trouble. Can you send someone immediately?”

  “Do you need an ambulance, sir? Was there an accident?”

  “No. No accident, but you’ll need to send several officers to overpower an armed man who’s keeping a child handcuffed to a bed.”

  The voice on the other end of the line hesitated for a second, continuing without emotion.

  “Give me your exact location, please.”

  I looked up and down the road, having no idea of the street number.

  “It’s the Hatfield tenant house on Lewis Road in East Goodland. First house on the left, about a half-mile down from Goodland Road. There’s an old Dodge Omni parked out front.”

  “Okay, sir. Now, you said there’s no medical emergency?”

  I spoke quietly into the phone. “I don’t think so. You just need to get that child out of there.”

  I heard the woman conferring with someone on the other end of the line. Finally she came back. “Sir, how do you know this child is being abused?”

  This was taking far too long.

  “I looked in the window and saw him,” I admitted. “I’m standing outside right behind their house.”

  I knew as soon as I said it, I’d lost her. She’d think I was some crazy guy who was spying on an innocent family and making up stories to get back at them.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you really ought to talk to Child Protective Services and lodge a complaint. I can give you a hotline number. We don’t handle child abuse cases unless the individual is in imminent physical danger.”

  Imminent physical danger. How about constant physical and psychological danger?

 
“Listen. The kid is handcuffed to the bed. I saw him. The guy won’t admit he has a kid in there. He puts duct tape on the boy’s mouth when anyone comes around so he can’t scream. But I heard him crying, which is why I looked in the windows. I know it sounds crazy, but I really need some help here. Can’t you just send someone down to investigate?”

  She hesitated and conferred again. “Okay, sir. Just sit tight. We’re going to patch this down to your local police station and ask them to send out a car to take a look.”

  I thanked her, sighed with relief, and stomped my feet to get the blood flowing. I was freezing and needed to move. As an unwelcome complication, large snowflakes began to fall from the sky. I pulled my parka hood over the wool cap and snapped it tight, then pulled my scarf over my nose. My breath sifted through the wool and emerged in frozen puffs. I forced myself to walk back and forth on a short path for fifteen minutes, trying to stave off the cold, and constantly scanning the road for the sign of a police car.

  The front door slammed and a light snapped on in the garage. I moved back behind the trees. A small engine started up. Baxter revved it several times until it smoothed out. The garage door screeched open, but I couldn’t see what was happening from my vantage point behind the windbreak. I held my breath, wondering what the hell he was doing.

  A snowmobile pulled around the back of the garage and idled beside the house. Baxter had wrapped the boy in a quilt and held him on his lap. He eased the vehicle around the debris that littered the yard and stopped in front of me, directing the vehicle’s headlight into my eyes.

  “I knew you’d be trouble, you son of a—”

  Rather than finish his sentence, he zoomed toward me.

  The bastard was going to mow me down.

  I lunged sideways and tripped over the leg of a submerged lawn chair. One of the skis on the vehicle scraped my thigh. Warm moisture oozed from my leg, and Baxter took off with a roar.

  I looked at the gouge in my leg, feeling no pain. I fumbled for the phone again, this time dialing the number of the local police station. It was ingrained in my memory since Elsbeth became ill six years ago. Rather than call 911 and have any ambulance from around the county be routed to our house, I’d gotten to know the routine and had found I received an even quicker response if I reached one of the local officers at the village station. They’d usually send a couple of men out who would help me safely transport Elsbeth to the hospital. I should have called this number in the first place.

  “Conaroga Village Police. How may I help you?”

  My phone beeped. I tried to explain to her that Baxter had fled with the child on a snowmobile. I figured, too late, that he must have intercepted the call to one of the patrolmen on his police scanner. I talked through dozens of beeps.

  Staring at the phone in disbelief, I cursed myself for not charging it last night. The battery was nearly dead. I tried again, but was greeted with the same polite response. The drone of Baxter’s snowmobile dwindled to a faint mosquito buzz.

  “Conaroga Village Police. How may I help you? Could you please speak up?”

  A muted crash echoed across the valley. My heart sank into my boots. I peered through snowflakes and saw smoke spiraling into the sky in the distance. The sound of the snowmobile had stopped with the crash.

  I tried once again to make the call, but the damn thing was dead.

  There was no sign of a squad car. No sirens. No lights. I ran to the front of the house and pushed on the door. Locked. I kicked it four times until the wood splintered around the lock. Flipping on the light, I searched for a phone. I found it and frowned at the dead line. Of course. Baxter had cut the wires.

  Thoroughly ticked off, I grabbed a hunk of Kleenex from a dusty box on the windowsill and held it against the blood trickling down my leg. I secured the Kleenex with duct tape, then taped up the hole in my ski pants and pushed back out into the cold.

  If the crash had come from the snowmobile, the child could be lying helpless on the cold ground. He could be injured, or knocked unconscious. If someone didn't get to him soon, he'd freeze to death. I prayed the poor little boy hadn’t been killed in the crash.

  I clicked into my skis and began plowing over the tracks made by the snowmobile. A snow squall blew from the west, and the full moon emerged from behind clouds, its light limning the ground. The wind had picked up. Icy crystals spit against my face. I pushed and pulled myself over the field toward a plume of smoke billowing toward the stars, and followed the snowmobile trail leading down the west slope of the Genesee Valley. When I reached the ridge, I realized what happened and stopped dead, breathing hard. Baxter hadn't known about the gorge carved by the wide river below.

  I moved cautiously to the edge of the slope and looked down, fearing the worst.

  A ball of fire burned at the base of the cliff one hundred feet below, spewing black acrid smoke. The river sparkled black in the light of the moon, winding through the floes of ice jamming the shores. The snowmobile had landed fifty feet from the edge of the water.

  My heart sank. I watched the fuel-fed fire crack and spark below. The poor little child.

  The wind pushed the smoke into my face, stinging my eyes. I began to second-guess my behavior over the last few days, wishing I’d acted sooner and lamenting the fact that I hadn’t confronted Baxter in the house instead of calling the police. Any of these options might have saved the little boy.

  The smoke cleared.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw something flutter in the breeze. Glancing down along the slope of the steep ravine, I saw him.

  Chapter 14

  The boy lay twenty-five feet below, lodged against a small thicket of shrubs on the cliff. The quilt was still partially wrapped around his little body. One bare hand lay extended from the bundle. I took off my skis and crept to the edge, searching for movement. Is he alive?

  His hand moved.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth to help project my words in the wind. “Don’t move, son. I’m coming to get you.”

  I grabbed my old wooden ski poles, thinking fast. If I tried to go for help, the boy would freeze to death before I returned. I had no choice but to go down after him.

  One at a time, I snapped the twenty-year-old bamboo ski poles against the base of a nearby pine. I broke off the top third of each one, leaving foot-long sticks with nylon loops attached to the top. I pulled the tie string from my hood, lashed it around both of the sticks, and bound them tightly together. After winding the nylon hand straps within each other to keep them from separating at the top, I slid one hand through the double loop. I hoped it would work as a pick with which I could stab the snow on the way down the slope.

  Jabbing with my handmade pick, I carefully lowered myself over the ledge, praying that it would hold. When my feet found a purchase, I dug the heels of my ski boots into the ground and packed a small wedge into the snow. Testing it, I found it would hold. I pulled the pick out and moved my hand down to waist level, spearing the snow beside me. Encouraged, I repeated the action once again. It worked.

  The ball of fire had lessened below, but smoke continued to pour into the night sky. I slowly worked my way down the hill and called to the child, repeating similar phrases in case he could hear me. “You’ll be okay, sport. Just hold nice and still.”

  When I was ten feet from the boy, he raised his face to mine. His eyes were wide with fear. He shivered violently.

  Our eyes connected and I spoke in a soothing tone. “Almost there, now. Just hang on. Put your hands in your pockets if you can, they’ll be warmer that way.”

  He drew his thin arm back under the quilt.

  “Good. Good job. That’s ri—”

  The pick slipped and I started to slide. Snow scraped against my cheek and I plummeted toward the gorge. A cry of fear came from the boy. And maybe there was one from me, I don’t remember. But God must’ve decided he needed me this day, for my descent was halted when my scrabbling hands caught the base of a thick shrub. I hung onto the bush and jammed the pick hard into the snow pack beside it. The moment I transferred my weight to the pick, the bush’s roots pulled out and it tumbled toward the fire below.