into his chest. A German word.”
Her lips moved. She spoke, but she barely spoke at all. Even so, he knew the word that escaped her mouth. “ Teufel .”
“How did you know that, Kelli?”
She slammed the door of the bathroom shut without answering him. He heard the twist of the lock. The ceramic lid of the toilet seat banged open, and he heard the unmistakable noise of Kelli Andrews vomiting out the contents of her stomach. He heard something else, too. Down the hallway, through the broken window, sirens rose in the distance. The police were coming for her.
“Kelli?”
She was quiet. He listened at the door.
“Kelli, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer, and he grew concerned. He pounded on the frame, and when there was still no sound from inside, he lurched his shoulder heavily into the rickety door, which gave way under his weight. He punched it open.
The bathroom was empty and freezing. The aroma of sweet sickness blew toward him. The window was open, its curtains flying like the cape of a witch sailing across the moonlit sky.
Kelli was gone.
13
In the morning, Stride faced a choice.
He got out of the bed in his uncle’s attic at dawn. Richard was still asleep downstairs. He made coffee and poured a large cup into a travel mug, then grabbed a bran muffin and ate it standing up. He left a note for his uncle—thanking him, saying goodbye, telling him he was welcome to visit in Duluth. With his suitcase in the back of his truck, he followed the dark, empty streets of Shawano to the east-west ramps of Highway 29.
With one turn, he would be on his way home.
Stride stopped on the overpass near the westbound ramp. There was no one else on the road. The morning was gray, and the woods were a nest of shadows. He tried to turn the wheel. He told himself that it didn’t matter what had happened to Greg Hamlin. It didn’t matter where Kelli Andrews was. It didn’t matter that Percy Andrews had put a gun to his head while he was standing only twenty feet away from Stride.
He didn’t belong in Shawano. This was someone else’s problem.
He told himself all of that, but then he took the opposite ramp, heading east on Highway 29. Not toward home. Not toward Duluth.
The cop in the cemetery deserved another day of his life.
Stride used his cell phone to call his partner, Maggie Bei. He reached her voice mail, which was fine, because he didn’t want to talk to her. Things had been awkward between them since the break-up of their affair over the winter. They still worked together every day, but it was hard to call them friends. Not enemies, not lovers, but not really friends anymore.
“Mags, it’s me. I’ve been delayed another day in Shawano. Something came up with my uncle. I’m hoping to be back tomorrow. Call me if you need me.” He didn’t provide details or admit that he was marching onto land that had been clearly labeled No Trespassing by Sheriff Weik.
A few miles east on Highway 29, he headed south toward the town of Appleton.
Percy Andrews had highlighted a charge on Greg Hamlin’s credit card statement for a locksmith in Appleton. One hour later, Stride found the home of Buddy Crown, owner of Buddy’s FastLocks. The locksmith lived in a quiet neighborhood near the shore of Lake Winnebago. His white van was parked in the driveway.
He caught Buddy as the man was heading out of his house to drill a safe deposit box at one of the local banks. The locksmith wasn’t in a mood to chat. He didn’t remember Hamlin—“I average a dozen calls a day every day”—but he did remember Percy Andrews making the same inquiry as Stride. After expressing his annoyance that the left hand of the police didn’t know what the right hand was doing, Buddy retrieved his log book and gave Stride an address where he’d opened a locked car for Greg Hamlin on a Tuesday evening nearly two months earlier.
Tuesday.
Stride remembered what Hope Hamlin had said. For months, he’s been disappearing on Tuesday
Her lips moved. She spoke, but she barely spoke at all. Even so, he knew the word that escaped her mouth. “ Teufel .”
“How did you know that, Kelli?”
She slammed the door of the bathroom shut without answering him. He heard the twist of the lock. The ceramic lid of the toilet seat banged open, and he heard the unmistakable noise of Kelli Andrews vomiting out the contents of her stomach. He heard something else, too. Down the hallway, through the broken window, sirens rose in the distance. The police were coming for her.
“Kelli?”
She was quiet. He listened at the door.
“Kelli, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer, and he grew concerned. He pounded on the frame, and when there was still no sound from inside, he lurched his shoulder heavily into the rickety door, which gave way under his weight. He punched it open.
The bathroom was empty and freezing. The aroma of sweet sickness blew toward him. The window was open, its curtains flying like the cape of a witch sailing across the moonlit sky.
Kelli was gone.
13
In the morning, Stride faced a choice.
He got out of the bed in his uncle’s attic at dawn. Richard was still asleep downstairs. He made coffee and poured a large cup into a travel mug, then grabbed a bran muffin and ate it standing up. He left a note for his uncle—thanking him, saying goodbye, telling him he was welcome to visit in Duluth. With his suitcase in the back of his truck, he followed the dark, empty streets of Shawano to the east-west ramps of Highway 29.
With one turn, he would be on his way home.
Stride stopped on the overpass near the westbound ramp. There was no one else on the road. The morning was gray, and the woods were a nest of shadows. He tried to turn the wheel. He told himself that it didn’t matter what had happened to Greg Hamlin. It didn’t matter where Kelli Andrews was. It didn’t matter that Percy Andrews had put a gun to his head while he was standing only twenty feet away from Stride.
He didn’t belong in Shawano. This was someone else’s problem.
He told himself all of that, but then he took the opposite ramp, heading east on Highway 29. Not toward home. Not toward Duluth.
The cop in the cemetery deserved another day of his life.
Stride used his cell phone to call his partner, Maggie Bei. He reached her voice mail, which was fine, because he didn’t want to talk to her. Things had been awkward between them since the break-up of their affair over the winter. They still worked together every day, but it was hard to call them friends. Not enemies, not lovers, but not really friends anymore.
“Mags, it’s me. I’ve been delayed another day in Shawano. Something came up with my uncle. I’m hoping to be back tomorrow. Call me if you need me.” He didn’t provide details or admit that he was marching onto land that had been clearly labeled No Trespassing by Sheriff Weik.
A few miles east on Highway 29, he headed south toward the town of Appleton.
Percy Andrews had highlighted a charge on Greg Hamlin’s credit card statement for a locksmith in Appleton. One hour later, Stride found the home of Buddy Crown, owner of Buddy’s FastLocks. The locksmith lived in a quiet neighborhood near the shore of Lake Winnebago. His white van was parked in the driveway.
He caught Buddy as the man was heading out of his house to drill a safe deposit box at one of the local banks. The locksmith wasn’t in a mood to chat. He didn’t remember Hamlin—“I average a dozen calls a day every day”—but he did remember Percy Andrews making the same inquiry as Stride. After expressing his annoyance that the left hand of the police didn’t know what the right hand was doing, Buddy retrieved his log book and gave Stride an address where he’d opened a locked car for Greg Hamlin on a Tuesday evening nearly two months earlier.
Tuesday.
Stride remembered what Hope Hamlin had said. For months, he’s been disappearing on Tuesday
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