Blake Pierce - Once Gone

Two longhaired men worked at the desk, fending off complainers and trying to keep up with phone calls. They looked like twenty-something slackers, and they didn’t appear to be managing things at all well.

Riley managed to push her way to the front, where she caught one of the young men between phone calls. His nametag said “Melvin.”

“I’m Agent Riley Paige, FBI,” she announced, hoping that in the confusion, Melvin wouldn’t ask to see her badge. “I’m here on a murder investigation. Are you the manager?”

Melvin shrugged. “I guess.”

From his vacant expression, Riley guessed that he was either stoned or not very bright, or possibly both. At least he didn’t seem to be worried about seeing any ID.

“I’m looking for the man you’ve got working at Madeline’s,” she said. “A janitor. His first name is Dirk. Madeline doesn’t seem to know his last name.”

Melvin muttered to himself, “Dirk, Dirk, Dirk… Oh, yeah. I remember him. ‘Dirk the Dick,’ we used to call him.” Calling out to the other young man, he asked, “Hey, Randy, whatever happened to Dirk the Dick?”

“We fired him,” Randy replied. “He kept showing up late for jobs, when he bothered to show up at all. A real pain in the ass.”

“That can’t be right,” Riley said. “Madeline says he’s still working for her. He was just there this morning.”

Melvin looked puzzled now.

“I’m sure we fired him,” he said. He sat down at the old computer and began some kind of a search. “Yeah, we sure did fire him, about three weeks ago.”

Melvin squinted at the screen, more puzzled than before.

“Hey, this is weird,” he said. “Madeline keeps sending us checks, even though he’s not working anymore. Somebody should tell her to stop doing that. She’s blowing a lot of money.”

The situation was becoming clearer to Riley. Despite being fired and no longer getting paid, Dirk still kept going to work at Madeline’s. He had his own reasons for wanting to work there – sinister reasons.

“What’s his last name?” Riley asked.

Melvin’s eyes roamed about the computer screen. He was apparently looking at Dirk’s defunct employee records.

“It’s Monroe,” Melvin said. “What else do you want to know?”

Riley was relieved that Melvin wasn’t being too scrupulous about sharing what ought to be confidential information.

“I need his address and phone number,” Riley said.

“He didn’t give us a phone number,” Melvin said, still looking at the screen. “I’ve got an address, though. Fifteen-twenty Lynn Street.”

By now, Randy had taken interest in the conversation. He was looking over Melvin’s shoulder at the computer screen.

“Hold it,” Randy said. “That address is completely bogus. The house numbers on Lynn Street don’t go anywhere near that high.”

Riley wasn’t surprised. Dirk Monroe obviously didn’t want anyone to know where he lived.

“What about a Social Security number?” she asked.

“I’ve got it,” Melvin said. He wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Riley.

“Thanks,” Riley said. She took the paper and walked away. As soon as she set foot outside, she called Bill.

“Hey, Riley,” Bill said when he answered. “I wish I could give you some good news But our psychologist interviewed Cosgrove, and he’s convinced that the man is not capable of killing anyone, let alone four women. He said – ”

“Bill,” she interrupted. “I’ve got a name – Dirk Monroe. He’s our guy, I’m sure of it. I don’t know where he lives. Can you run his Social? Now?”

Bill took the number and put Riley on hold. Riley paced up and down the sidewalk anxiously as she waited. Finally Bill came back on the line.

“I’ve got the address. It’s a farm about thirty miles west of Shellysford. A rural road.”

Bill read her the address.

“I’m going,” Riley said.

Bill sputtered.

“Riley, what are you talking about? Let me get some backup there. This guy’s dangerous.”

Riley felt her whole body tingle with an adrenaline rush.

“Don’t argue with me, Bill,” she said. “You ought to know better by now.”

Riley ended the call without saying goodbye. Already, she was driving.

When the farmhouse came into view, Riley felt jarred in a way that she hadn’t expected. It was as if she’d driven into an oil painting of an ideal rural America. The white wood-frame house was nestled cozily in a small valley. The house was old, but obviously kept in decent condition.

A few outbuildings were scattered on the nearby grounds. They were not in as good repair as the house. Neither was a large barn that looked ready to collapse. But those structures looked all the more charming because of their dilapidation.

Riley parked a short distance from the house. She checked the gun in her holster and got out of the car. She breathed in the clear, clean country air.

It shouldn’t be this lovely here, Riley thought. And yet she knew that it made perfect sense. Ever since she’d talked to her father, she’d dimly realized that the killer’s lair might well be a place of beauty.

Still, there was a kind of danger here that she hadn’t prepared herself for. It was the danger of being lulled by the sheer charm of her surroundings, of letting down her guard. She had to remind herself that a hideous evil coexisted with this beauty. She knew she was about to find herself face to face with the true horror of the place. But she had no idea just where she’d find it.

She turned and looked all around. She didn’t see any truck on the grounds. Either Dirk was out driving somewhere, or the truck was inside one of the outbuildings or the barn. The man himself could be anywhere, of course – in one of the outbuildings, possibly. But she decided to check the house first.

A noise startled her, and her peripheral vision caught a flurry of rapid movement. But it was only a handful of loose chickens. Several hens were pecking the ground nearby. Nothing else moved except tall blades of grass and leaves on the trees as a gentle breeze blew through them. She felt utterly alone.

Riley approached the farmhouse. When she arrived at the steps, she drew her gun, then walked up on the porch. She knocked on the front door. There was no response. She knocked again.

“I’ve got a delivery for Dirk Monroe,” she called out. “I need a signature to leave it.”

Still no response.

Riley stepped off the porch and began to circle the house. The windows were too high to see into, and she found that the back door was also locked.

She returned to the front door and knocked again. There was still only silence. The door lock was a simple, old-fashioned type for a skeleton key. She carried a little lock-picking set in her handbag for just such situations. She knew that the hook of a small flat tension wrench would do the trick.

She slipped her gun back into its holster and found the wrench. She inserted it into the lock, then groped and twisted it until the lock rotated. When she turned the doorknob the door swung open. Drawing her gun again, she walked inside.

The interior had much the same picturesque quality as the landscape outside. It was a perfect little country home, remarkably neat and clean. There were two big soft chairs in the living room with white crocheted pieces on the arms and back.

The room made her feel as though friendly family members might step out at any second to welcome her, to invite her to make herself at home. But as Riley studied her surroundings, that feeling waned. This house actually did not look as if it were lived in at all. Everything was just too neat.

She remembered her father’s words.