Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

Kevin Teater removed his helmet and peeled off his mask before radioing their location to the command truck. He then rubbed his face with his open palm and raised his eyebrows at Joe. “What d’ya think?” he asked.

“I think it would be a stretch to say that footprint didn’t belong to Carolyn Barber,” Joe answered indirectly.

“Which brings us,” Lester suggested, “from Robinson Crusoe to Cinderella.”

“Or the Hunting of the Snark,” Teater suggested.

His three companions each gave him a blank look.

* * *

Willy Kunkle killed the engine and observed his home, located defensively at the top of a horseshoe-shaped street in West Brattleboro. His neighborhood hadn’t suffered from the flooding, being situated on a slope above the otherwise devastated Whetstone Brook valley. There had been at most a damp cellar on the block or an old tree toppled because of overly saturated soil. But Willy’s house had suffered nothing, in part because of his own preparedness.

And not in advance of just this storm. It wasn’t Willy’s style to yield to a single threat. To him, there was nothing but peril all around-and all the time-which was why his house had been chosen for its strategic location, why his property’s trees and shrubs allowed for clear sight lines down both streets, why he had two sump pumps in the basement and a backup generator, and why his locks and doors and windows were all high security-rated.

The coming of Irene had been no more for Willy Kunkle than a confirmation of his everyday fears, and his survival of her passing mere proof that you can never be too cautious or too prepared.

But it wasn’t the condition of the house that he was contemplating. His thoughts were on its occupants, as Sam had left the office early to relieve Louise from her babysitting.

Sam had been steady from the start of their union, seeing beyond his paranoia to identify the love he held for her and now their daughter. For him, predictably, that had only added to his worries. Sam gave so much with her forbearance, her patience, and her generosity. When was that going to run out? When was she, like everyone else in his life-including him-going to realize that he was a lost cause?

Willy watched his large right hand, resting on the bottom of the steering wheel-powerful, capable, a veritable weapon to so many who’d suffered from its strength. But what did it represent? A surrogate for its useless left companion perpetually stuffed into his pants pocket; a reminder that he was a cripple in fact and in function. The arm had been destroyed by a bullet years ago, taken in the line of duty, and despite the handicap, Willy-with Joe’s urging and to everyone’s amazement-had battled back to requalify as a fully certified police officer. He’d done as well over time combating alcoholism, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, a broken marriage, and the social isolation caused by a complete lack of diplomacy.

He closed the hand into a fist, acknowledging none of those victories. What he believed instead was that someday he’d wear out his welcome with the very family he’d traveled so far and worked so hard to create.

As if activated by his thoughts, the front door of the house opened and Sammie stepped out with Emma in her arms. Smiling a little sadly, she crossed the lawn as Willy rolled down his window, and handed the little girl in to him, murmuring, “Here you go, sweetie. I think Daddy needs a hug.”

Willy looked into his partner’s eyes as he took the child to his chest and cradled her there, his earlier concerns struggling against the warmth and sincerity he saw in Sam’s face.

“How did you know?” he asked, kissing his daughter’s feather-fine hair.

“We watch each other’s back,” she answered simply, and opened his door. “Come on in.”

Willy swung out with surprising grace, given his handicap and his bundle, closed the car door with a foot, and fell in behind Sam on the way to the house.

“Hear from the boss yet?” he asked as the baby snuggled into his neck.

“Yup. He and Les spent hours making like moles and came up with a single footprint. They’re thinking Barber made it out alive, if minus one shoe.”

Willy took that at face value, knowing the rest would come later and in more detail. “What about her? Barber?” he asked next, referring to the assignment they’d been left by Joe. “You find out anything?”

Sam held open the front door to let him by, stroking his shoulder as he passed. “Not much yet. I wanted to clear off some other stuff on my desk first. I found out she worked for the state about forty years ago, and that she was the same Carolyn Barber Joe was talking about-the Governor-for-a-Day. He was also right about that being a one-shot wonder, never repeated. My gut tells me I’ll get more from talking with people than digging through files. Right now, she just looks like she was a clerk or a secretary or something almost invisible. How ’bout you?”

Willy had taken on what he was calling the “box of rocks” from the cemetery near Newfane. He turned into the living room and carefully slid into the rocking chair by the window, seeing that Emma had nodded off.

“Herb Rozanski,” he said in a soothing voice as Sam sat on the arm of the nearby sofa. “Only son of Bud and Dreama Rozanski. Brother of Eileen Rozanski Ranslow. Died twenty-seven years ago at the age of eighteen of an industrial accident at the family’s logging and lumber operation. The accident was witnessed by the father, the body checked out by the authorities, and all the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered.”

Sammie smiled at the domestic scene and the tone of Willy’s voice. “They must’ve really loved those rocks,” she said.

Willy laughed gently. “Yeah. Well, you got that right. Guess I’ll be doing a little up-close-and-personal interviewing, too.”

Lester Spinney settled into the corner of one of the Waterbury fire department’s empty back offices and extracted his smartphone. Joe and he had ended up here to conclude the HazMat aspect of their day-returning the equipment and filing a report with the police chief about the state of the tunnels. The police department had been evacuated, forcing the chief to catch his meetings wherever he could for the time being, including in his cruiser.

None of which was Lester’s concern. He was more than content to leave that conversation to his boss, and to instead reach out quickly for home. Lester’s was the unit’s lightest heart-a family man, a Springfield resident, born and bred, married to the same woman he’d first met in community college. Stayovers like the one he’d just spent at Allard’s house were not his idea of a good time. He preferred going home every night.

“You out there, babe?” he texted.

“Hi,” came the near-instant response from his wife, Sue, a nurse at Springfield Hospital.

“What ya doin’?” he typed. His daughter, Wendy, had tried to educate him on the protocols and practices of proper text-speak, but he and Sue preferred their own version.

“Good timing,” she wrote back. “Babysitting a pt. in ICU. U?”

“Waterbury. Just went thru the tunnels here. Creepy.”

“Dangerous?” was the immediate reply.

“Nope. HazMat suits. Town a mess. Missed U last nite.”

“U2.”

“Dave do OK on test?”

“Thinks so.”

Spinney heard Joe calling out for him from somewhere in the building. “Gotta go, honey. Luv U.”

He was reading “Luv U2” when Joe poked his head through the open doorway and smiled. “Tell her I said hi.”

Les laughed and dutifully followed orders, reading aloud to Joe, “Tell him to give you back to me in one piece.”

“I promise,” Joe said, and crooked his finger. “I found a girl who knows a guy who knew our missing person-a nurse at the hospital. Maybe she’ll tell us Carolyn’s couch surfing in her living room.”