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Old, weathered barnboard, rotting at the base, a slapdash roof. The windows are so caked with dirt that it would be impossible to see inside even if we were standing up close, let alone from this distance.
The building appears neglected. At the sight of it I’m struck by déjà vu, though I’m not sure why. Like the mildewed cellar where I was once held, there is something sad about this place, something abandoned.
I can imagine girls being held in this building. I can imagine bodies abandoned beneath those decaying floorboards. I can picture this being the last thing someone like Lilah Abenito ever saw.
The distance from Walt’s place to the grave sites is less than six miles. Easily traveled by an ATV, with three trails connecting his property to Laurel Lane.
Except... why dump the bodies off his land when he has so many private acres to work with? Land where he can obviously control access and limit the chance of anyone randomly stumbling upon his handiwork?
I feel like I understand something, but not enough. Which, of course, is why we are here.
I resume my inspection of the perimeter where the woods thin out then give way to the hodgepodge collection of structures. I spy four or five spotlights; I would guess they’re motion sensitive, but not terribly effective given the mid-morning sun. What I find interesting is that the lights appear new, with clean metal brackets attached to walls that clearly were erected decades ago.
I pause, tilt my head to the side. I can hear the rumble of an engine, followed by a distinct grinding sound.
I turn wide-eyed toward Keith just in time for him to nod his agreement. “Wood chipper,” he murmurs.
“Great. How fucking Fargo of him.”
Keith shrugs. Philosophically? Fatalistically? It occurs to me this is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and considering how I’ve spent the past six to seven years, that’s saying something.
I can’t make out any more cameras or signs of life. With the noise across the way offering cover for our approach, I step from the woods and onto the property.
No snarling dogs charge around the corner. No alarms sound shrilly. No bullets fly by my head. Just the sound of the wood chipper, deep and throaty as it shreds the next... something.
My heart is racing. We probably should’ve left a message for D.D. Or last wills and testaments for our loved ones. Too late now.
We creep toward the first dilapidated structure. Again I catch a whiff of decay. Is that what’s triggering that intense sense of familiarity? The smell is earthy and moldy—the scent of neglect, not death.
We make it around the corner. Again, as if we’ve been doing this for years, I take up point, Keith ducks behind me, quickly works the lock on the door. He has to force it with his shoulder, and the screech of the rusted hinges makes us both draw up short. Whatever this building is used for, it clearly hasn’t been active for a long time.
Again, the sound of the wood chipper, whirring across the distance.
Keith disappears inside the shed. I sweat through all my clothes and am just considering charging in behind him, butterfly blade in hand, when he returns.
“Nothing,” he whispers, both of us tucking against the side of the building.
“Define nothing.”
“Rusted-out equipment. Vintage glass bottles. Stuff our grandparents would love. Stacked floor to ceiling, too. Trust me, no one is hiding anything in there any time soon.”
I frown at him. “We’re trying to find a serial killer, and we’ve stumbled upon a hoarder instead?”
“Um... kind of.”
The next building we approach is self-explanatory. A chicken coop, as Keith had suspected. Which leaves us with the two larger buildings. The one to our right appears to be an old two-story barn, the kind with a sliding wood door up high for loading bales of hay into the loft. Whereas straight ahead looms a low-slung log cabin that appears to tilt slightly to the right and has a front porch topped with an ancient-looking washer and an equally decrepit dryer.
Next to the barn is a tractor, John Deere green and clearly one of the newer items on the property. Otherwise it’s open ground between us and the barn. Once again I note the relatively new spotlights.
I feel like there’s something obvious that I’m missing. Cameras? Booby traps?
The barn itself appears as weather-beaten as the sheds. The roof is nearly covered in moss. The small high windows stay with the motif: dirt and more dirt.
In the distance, the wood chipper growls again. Then, abruptly, as if it can’t take one more bite, the whirring stops. The engine snaps off. The entire property falls silent.
I feel Keith shudder beside me. I don’t blame him. The wood chipper had been ominous. But the silence...
The silence is worse.
