Page 63 of Rage

I think about the assignments I doled out this morning. “Tell Mona to drop everything and meet me there.”

CHAPTER 16

Lost Creek is a fitting name for the road where Wilma Ann Borntrager resides. It’s a twisty stretch of asphalt that snakes through bottomland growth of dense brush and hundred-year-old trees. Only a handful of houses occupy this desolate stretch, half of which are abandoned. I pass by two mobile homes swamped with tall yellow grass. I traverse a bridge with a damaged guardrail and spot the mailbox ahead, the number I’m seeking finger-painted onto the side.

I pick up my radio. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.

“Ten-four.”

“Mona,” I say, “what’s your ETA?”

“Coming up behind you, Chief.”

Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I make the turn in to the driveway. The house is a circa 1950s cottage with a single-car garage, faded awnings, weatherworn siding, and a crumbling concrete porch. There are no vehicles in the driveway. I can just make out tire tracks in the dust, telling me someone was here not too long ago.

I park several yards back from the house and get out. The sun beats down on me like a hot cast-iron skillet. It’s incredibly quiet; not even the birds are singing. I can’t help but wonder if it’s just too damn hot.

I’ve just climbed the steps of the front porch when the crunch of tires on gravel sounds. I turn to see Mona pull in and park behind my Explorer.

She gets out and starts toward me. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

“We’ll see.” I open the storm door and knock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Wilma Ann Borntrager? Would you come out and talk to me please?”

No one answers.

Mona and I exchange a look.

She shrugs. “Might be napping.”

“Or passed out from the heat,” I mutter.

I can tell by her expression that, kidding aside, we’re pondering the same questions. Is this young woman purposefully avoiding us? Or is she missing?

Using the heel of my hand, I knock again, this time hard enough to rattle the door. “Everyone okay in there?” I call out. “Come out and talk to me!”

Mona sidles left and bends slightly, trying to get a look through the window, but the drapes are drawn tight.

“Check to see if there’s a vehicle in the garage,” I tell her. “I’m going to go around back.”

“Got it.” She makes eye contact with me.

I hold her gaze a moment. “Eyes open,” I tell her. “Watch the windows.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Side by side, we descend the steps. She goes west toward the garage. I proceed east, walk along the side of the house, and round the corner to the back. I keep one eye on the windows as I pass, the other on the trees to my right.

The backyard is a jungle of weeds, brush, and saplings that have been left to proliferate. I trip over a fallen grill, kick it aside, head toward the tiny concrete porch. The iron rail jiggles when I take the steps. The back door is a half lite. Through the glass, I see a small kitchen with an old gas stove. Dark cabinets. Goose-themed wallpaper. A porcelain sink that’s pitted with rust. Peeling linoleum on the floor.

Using the heel of my hand, I knock. “Painters Mill Police Department! Ms. Borntrager? Is everything okay in there? Come on out and talk to me please!”

The only response is the incessant whirr of cicadas from the woods.

“Crap.” Sweat drips down my right temple as I take the steps down to the yard. I pass by an uncovered window, cup my hands, and peer inside. It’s a dining room. Card table. Half-dead fiddle-leaf fig against the window. Scarred wooden floors. No movement. The place looks lived in, but barely.

I continue to the west side of the house to find Mona at the back of the garage. “Is there a vehicle inside?” I ask.

“No windows. The overhead door is locked.” She motions toward the gravel. “There are footprints in the dust, though, Chief. Tire tracks. Someone’s been here recently.”