Page 78 of The Dysasters

“Hey,” Eve touched his arm gently. “We’re not here to kidnap anyone.”

“Okay, Eve, answer me this.” Mark studied the road as he spoke in clipped sentences. “What if hewon’tcooperate? What if Tate’s warned the old man and he says he doesn’t know anything or he refuses to help us? Are we just going to shake his hand and walk away?”

Eve felt herself harden like the crystals she had begun regularly summoningto her. “We’re not going to hurt him, but we need information and if that old man has it, we’re going to get it from him.”

“Which means the fog and rain stay,” Mark said.

Eve bit her lip, but didn’t say anything more. They retraced their way to old man Bowen’s secluded house in silence.

The small, single-lane blacktop that led from the highway to Bowen’s property was like the house and the grounds—well lived in and well cared for. They followed the blacktop, which led to a tall privacy fence and an imposing iron gate.

Mark stopped the SUV in front of the gate and turned to Eve. “Now what?”

Eve gave him an exasperated look. “There’s an intercom. Press the button. I’ll do the talking.”

Mark grunted and pressed the button. A tinny voice blasted through the little speaker. “Hello!”

“Hello, Mr. Bowen?” Eve said, leaning over Mark so that she could speak into the console.

“What can I do you for?”

“Mr. Bowen, we’re from the FBI and we’d like to speak with you about your grandson, Tate Taylor.”

“My grandson is dead.” The old man’s voice turned to gravel.

“Yes, sir. We have questions about his death,” Eve said.

Bowen’s answer was a buzzing sound and the gate swinging open.

The house was nice, Eve decided. Unusual, with lots of art—mostly charcoal drawings of gigantic, shaggy dogs like the one that was shadowing Bowen and glaring at them with distrustful yellow eyes. And the location was better than Eve could have hoped for. The old man had already told them that he owned a two-hundred-acre parcel, and he was the only inhabitant.Perfect.

“Now, are you sure none of you would like some pie to go with that coffee? I have cherry and apple—just brought them fresh from my favorite café. Only take a sec to heat up. I like to be sure our law enforcement folks are fed and watered,” said Bowen.

“No, sir. This is perfect,” Eve said. After they’d produced (fake) identification the old man had welcomed them into his home and promptly poured them each a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Eve had tried not to be too obvious, but the books that were scattered around the coffee table and corner desk in the living room already had her curiosity buzzing.

“Looks like you enjoy science,” Matthew said, pointing at a thick textbook on human genetics that rested in the center of the coffee table.

“Taught high school biology for more years than I want to admit,” said Bowen. “I like to keep my mind sharp, so I keep studying. You know, we stop learning—we die.” He motioned to the huge wolfhound at his side and muttered, “Lie down, Bugsy old girl. They aren’t gonna bite you, and if they do feel free to bite ’em back.” Then, with his coffee mug that said DOGS—BECAUSE PEOPLE SUCKin his hand, he sat in the reclining chair across from the couch where Eve, Matthew, Mark, and Luke were sitting. “So, what information do you need about my Tate?”

“Well, sir,” Eve began, speaking earnestly and looking directly into Bowen’s surprisingly clear blue eyes. “We have reason to believe that your grandson might still be alive.”

Bowen jerked like someone had slapped him. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because we found evidence that there could have been a mix-up at the dentist’s office. The records that were used to identify Tate’s body might have been inaccurate,” Eve said.

“Sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me!” Bowen said.

“Mr. Bowen, there’s something else. At the football field we found the body of a woman who has been the ringleader in a conspiracy theory involving weather and teenagers. She’s the widow of a famous geneticist—Dr. Rick Stewart. With your background in the sciences you might have heard of him. He died in a tragic boating accident five years ago,” Eve explained.

“Nope, nope. Can’t say that I’ve heard of him. What’s all that nonsense have to do with my Tate?”

“Well, it seems this woman, Cora Stewart, has involved her adopted daughter, Foster, in her conspiracy theory. Both of them were seen at the football game before the tornadoes struck. Cora’s body has been positively identified, but Foster was spotted afterward. She was driving a stolen truck and shehad a passenger who she might have forced to go with her. We believe that passenger was Tate.”

Bowen didn’t say anything for several long moments. He simply studied Eve. Still silent, he turned his wise gaze to Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Then he shook his head, put his coffee cup on the end table beside his well-worn recliner, and stood.

When he spoke his words were sharp, cut off by anger and grief. “I buried Tate beside his parents—my daughter, my only child, my son-in-law, and my beautiful wife. They’redead. And that’s the end of it. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave my home.” The big dog stirred, growling deep in her wide chest.

The four of them stood, too.