Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart Page B

craved.
    We reached the mouth of the mountain valley; Kelly’s Farm was about three miles up a narrow road. I found an old dirt track and drove down it far enough to be out of sight. We got out of the car. The woods looked awfully dense. I’d brought two flashlights and a pair of binoculars along.
    â€œAre you sure you’re going to be able to get us in and out?”
    Mad John just gave me a huge grin and took a whack at the underbrush, which disappeared like magic. I had complete faith in his outdoor skills, I just wished I had the same faith in my own sleuthing skills. But Natasha had worked at this place and I needed to know who her clients were and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get the information by asking.
    We set off through the woods, gallant little Mad John in the lead, machete swinging, carrying on a running conversation with the local avian population. I find woods a huge bore, but the terrain and my own mounting anxiety kept me alert and after awhil e I went into a sort of fugue state, one foot in front of the other.
    Then Mad John stopped and hissssss- ed.
    Up ahead the woods ended and an old farmstead began—there were fields, stone walls, a couple of cows and goats grazing, a hen house, several barns and outbuildings, and a large old farmhouse. About half a dozen cars were parked out front. The place was in good repair but hardly had that Currier-and-Ives look you get when rich city folk tart-up an old farm, it just looked like an old farm that was somehow hanging in there.
    â€œLet’s just chill here and see what happens,” I said, feeling pretty unchill. It looked like we had about another half-hour of daylight, which was perfect timing, I could plan my steps and then take them under cover of dark.
    The house was rambling, with a rear wing that led to a screened breezeway that connected it to a barn. I raised my binocs: lights were on in the front of the house and the rooms looked perfectly ordinary. I’m not sure what I was expecting—red velvet walls and fringed lampshades maybe—but it looked more like Mayberry with corduroy couches, reproduction rockers, a massive TV. Behind the living room, there was a cozy claustrophobic kitchen with yellow walls, floral curtains, decorative trivets on the wall.
    I moved my sights farther back in the house—the windows were blackened, either with paint or fabric. I came to the breezeway and saw a tall, buxom not-young woman holding a leash at the end of which crawled a hairy, paunchy, middle-aged man wearing a diaper and a baby bonnet with a pacifier in his mouth. Fun. She led him into the barn.
    There were no lights on upstairs so I couldn’t tell what the rooms looked like. What I wanted to find was the office. Oh yeah, and I should probably photograph the license plates on the cars.
    Night had fallen, a dark night with just a sliver moon—it was time to make my move.
    â€œMad John, can you wait for me here? I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
    I set out across the lawn in a running crouch, avoiding the pools of light casting out from the windows, my heart thumping in my chest, my breathing shallow. I headed to the driveway, took out my cell and photographed the license plates.
    I headed around the other side of the house and moved in close—sure enough, through a window I saw an office: desk, computer, printer, fax, all neat, orderly, professional. There was a large datebook open on the desk, with several other ledgers nearby. The door leading from the office into the rest of the house was closed. I stepped closer to the window and was about to reach up to try and push it open when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œHi, Fran.”
    I practically jumped out of my skin. I spun around to see a lumpy old woman in a loose housedress and slippers, her eyes vacant, her mouth open. It took me only a second to realize that this gal had Alzheimer’s and was on a twilight ramble.
    â€œI’m