Uncle John, Part Two

The cabin was 15 miles north of campus, off a long dirt road. Red brick, one story, surrounded by trees at the top of a low hill overlooking a narrow river, it had the crumbled look of an ancient ruin lost in the jungle for centuries.

            The windows were broken. The front door wouldn’t budge, but the back door had been pulled off its hinges and left leaning on the wall. I got a flashlight from the car.

            Rachel followed me through a kitchen that had been wrecked—cabinets torn off the walls, garbage filling the sink, cracks in the tile floor. In the main room a stained, ripped sofa blocked the front door. Beer cans littered the concrete floor, along with an empty beer keg, soiled blankets, a broken bong, and other trash. The smell of pot lingered in the air.

“Looks like the campus party spot,” Rachel said, kicking an empty bottle of whiskey across the floor. “If these bricks could talk . . .” 

She paused for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. “They’d tell you things you don’t want to know.” She pointed to a dried-out condom on the floor.

I turned the flashlight to the rear. Two doors, one hanging off the wall, the other one mostly closed. The first was a bathroom, toilet and sink shattered long ago, but smelling as if it had been used for its original purpose for years.

            The other door felt stiff as I pushed on it, as if reluctant to let anyone through. I ran the light up and down, across the walls, from the hardwood floor to the thick wooden beams overhead, looming down from the ceiling. No window let any trace of light in.

            Rachel tensed. “They were here.”

            “Yeah.” I could feel it even though I wasn’t psychic. The air was stagnant, silent, with a faint odor of mold and decay. 

            I took a step into the room. Rachel stayed in the doorway. There was no trace left of the prisoners from seven years before, just a bare floor and dark walls with a few nails driven in randomly. I looked up at the beams. Had the girls been chained from them? Arms stretching toward the ceiling, feet straining to reach the floor? 

            Rachel shuddered. “I have to leave.”

            I scanned the floor with my flashlight. The hardwood was dark and cluttered with rat droppings, cat food cans, crumpled papers, plastic bottles, a shoe, the dried remains of vomit. Half a candle lay in one corner, red with a gold stripe, its wick black.

            I leaned down to look at the candle. One of the floorboards was loose. I pried at it, and it popped up easily. Underneath I found only dirt and worms, and a long, thin dent in the soil as if something had been buried there. A cane?

            I straightened up. Rachel’s instincts were right—this place was creepy.  I followed her, eager to get away from whatever ghosts might be lingering in the shadows. 

            Back in the main room I took one last look around. I hadn’t expected to actually find any clues, but if Kayla’s disappearance was linked to the kidnappings seven years ago, I had to take a look. But nothing here gave me anything to go on. 

            A rat skittered along one wall. I managed not to yelp. Rachel took my arm. “I’ll protect you, big guy.”

            “Thanks. Wait—” I leaned down. Next to a crumpled beer can lay a sheet of yellow paper. 

            A flier for a church service. One sheet, folded over. CHURCH OF THE RISEN GOD read the block lettering above a sketch of a building with a cross on top. Beneath the sketch was the address, and a date. Two Sundays ago.

            The service itself, on the inside pages, looked pretty typical for Protestant worship. Hymns, verses, offering, and a sermon titled “Embrace Life.” The pastor was Edward Vining Jr.

            Rachel looked it over. “Clue?”

            “It’s newer than most of the stuff around here.” I scanned the floor with my flashlight. No more flyers. 

            It might be completely unrelated. Maybe Kayla had just run away, or been abducted by aliens. But this seemed worth checking out.

            The afternoon sun was getting low as we returned to the car. “Let’s check out this church,” I said as we buckled up. “Then find a motel.” We’d packed bags to stay the night.

            “Good.” She stretched. “I could use a bath. Long drive.”

            I nodded. “Yeah.”

 

The church was closed and locked up when we reached it, west of town. A small parking lot, a well-kept lawn, and shady trees surrounded its walls. I knocked and peeked in a front window, then gave up. A sign said it opened again at nine in the morning.

            We ate dinner and found a motel. I wrote up a report to send to my clients while Rachel took her bath, and then she started flipping through channels, looking for a good reality show. 

“UnReal Housewives, no. Survivor Island Volcano Edition, no. Kim and Jack Get Back, no, Quarantine Hustlers and Lovers, no—hey, it’s Soap Opera Offspring! Taboo Edition, yes!” She turned the sound up.

            My phone buzzed. Rachel likes reality shows a whole lot more than I do, but I tolerate them to keep the peace. But I wasn’t unhappy to be interrupted. Until I found out why.

            “Mr. Jurgen? It’s Liza. Liza Bowen? We talked today?”

            The girl at the sorority. “Yes. What’s up.”

            “They’re saying—” She gulped. “Another girl’s disappeared.”

            I stared at the TV, where mothers and sons were drinking champagne together. Then I looked away. “Who?”

            “Her name’s Benji. Benji Shawner. She lives here. I saw her outside, and then—she didn’t come home. There’s a text alert. I don’t—I don’t know if it has anything to do with Kayla, but—I wanted to tell you.”

            “Thank you.” I hung up.

            “What?” Rachel turned the sound down.

            “Another one. At the sorority house, or near it.” I swung my legs off the bed and reached for my shoes. 

            “Want me to come?” She sat forward.

            “No. Unless I call you. The campus cops won’t let me do too much. I just want to check it out myself.”

            “Call me. Often. I don’t want you chasing some serial killer on your own again.” She reached for her clothes on the chair next to the bed.

            “I will stay far away from any serial killers.” 

            “Liar.” But she kissed me. “Just be careful.”

            The motel was just off campus, so I reached the sorority house in 10 minutes. Two campus security cars were parked in front. A cop leaned next to the door on the porch. Every window was lit up. I could see shadows moving around in some of them. Others were still.

            The guard at the door was the Black cop from this morning. “You.”

            “Hi. Tom Jurgen? Private detective?”

            “I remember.” His eyes were steely. “What do you want?”

            “Another student disappeared?”

            He tilted his head, looking at me like I was an annoying bug. “Get the hell out of here.”

            “I don’t want to interfere with your investigation.” I held up my hands. “I just want to be able to report to Kayla Barth’s grandparents.”

            Before he could answer, the door behind him opened. I expected Chief Stogue, or whoever was handling the night desk. Instead it was Liza Bowen, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail now. She wore jeans and a hoodie, slippers on her feet. “Tom? Mr. Jurgen?”

            “Go back inside,” the cop said, but Liza squeezed through the door and ducked under his arm. He glared, but decided not to risk a lawsuit by picking her up and hurling her back through the door. “Stay on the porch,” he grunted.

            She led me down to the swinging bench. “I saw her,” Liza whispered. “Benji.”

            “Where?”

            “Out here.” She gestured toward the road in front of the sorority house. “Across the street.”

            Two smaller houses looked at us from the other side. One had a For Sale sign on its lawn. The other was dark, as if everyone was asleep, or the place was abandoned.

            “She was walking home, on the other side of the street. I saw her from my window.” She pointed up. “I saw her stop, like she was talking to somebody. I didn’t think anything about it. But then I went to get her for dinner, and she wasn’t in her room. I freaked. I called her phone, and she didn’t answer, and I started freaking out some more. I called everyone I knew, and they hadn’t seen her since her last class. And then I called campus security.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

            I nodded. “You did the right thing. The faster they get involved, the more likely they can help.”     

            She wiped her nose on her hoodie. “Yeah. And I told them, I saw her talking to someone, right? I didn’t see him, he was wearing this long coat and a hat or something—”

“Did he have anything in his hand? An umbrella, a cane maybe?”

“I didn’t . . .” She stopped and closed her eyes. “Yeah. There was a cane. Out in front of his feet. It looked funny.”

            Uh-oh. “Did you tell that to the police?”

            “Yeah.” Liza nodded. 

            “Did they check across the street?”

            “Yeah. I saw them knock on the doors. No one answered at either place. They went in back. But they didn’t find Benji.”

            I looked across the street. The two houses were about ten yards apart, with a fence between them running into the back, narrow pathways on each side. 

            I could go check the back yards out, but the cops had probably already been there, and I wouldn’t find anything they missed. And I’d get them on my ass for no good reason. 

            I thanked Liza, and she went back inside. The cop stared at me until I stood up, but then Stogue lumbered out of the house, one hand on the pistol at his hip. He didn’t look thrilled to see me.

            “This is an active investigation, Jurgen.” He crossed his arms. “Get the hell out of here.”

            “Man with a cane,” I said. “Liza saw him.”

            “We’re on top of everything.” He pointed toward my car. “Go.”

            “Steven Garner’s dead, right? Did he have any offspring who might be carrying on his work?”

            The name Garner made his eyes flinch. “I told you twice. I’m not telling you a third time. Get out.” 

            He sort of just had, but pointing that out might not be smart. I lifted my hands. “Got it. Hope you find them.” 

            In my car I thought for a moment while the Black cop watched me. I started up, drove a block, then parked and called Rachel. 

            I filled her in. “I’m going to go check out the cabin again. It’s probably empty, but—”

            “Come and get me,” she ordered. “I’m not sitting here watching aunts and nephews get it on and worrying about you.”

            I’d learned not to argue. “Give me a few minutes.”

 

I pulled up to the cabin with Rachel beside me. There were no patrol cars around the place, but a battered Toyota sat in front, with a rusty motorcycle leaning against its hood. Light flickered in the broken windows.

            “Good hunch.” Rachel reached for the glove compartment.

            “Not even a hunch. Just being thorough.” I got out and opened the trunk. A long, heavy flashlight lay on the floor, bigger than the one in the glove compartment. Along with our pepper spray, it would make a handy weapon. If I needed it. I hoped not.

            “Wonder if the cops came out already.” Rachel flicked on her flashlight as we rounded the cabin.

            “They’d have shut it down. Whatever this is.” I led the way, nervous. 

            The back door was still hanging open. I kept one hand in my jacket, holding the pepper spray.  We could already hear music and smell pot and beer as we made our way toward the big room.

            Six people—no seven, one was sitting in a dark corner—sat on the concrete floor around a lantern. College kids. They were passing a bong around. One girl was making out with a man. Another girl, in just shorts and bra, was passed out, her head on top of a balled-up sweater. The music came from a phone hooked up to a small speaker. A case of beer sat next to the lantern, and empty cans dripped on the floor.

            No one noticed us at first. Then a guy in a Rackham College sweatshirt caught the light from my flashlight and twisted around, almost tipping over. “Wha—what the hell?”

            Another guy stood up, wobbling in his sneakers. “Who are you—what are you, uh, why are you here?” 

            “Nobody. Just passing through.” I flicked the flashlight around the room. No chained-up bodies or pentagrams on the floor. No serial killers, just college kids having a party in the middle of nowhere. “You know about the history of this place?”

“The death house.” That came from the guy in the corner, in a gray T-shirt and camouflage pants. “Cool place to have a party.”

“Yeah.” I left Rachel for a moment to check out the back room. Still empty. No sign that anyone had been here in the hours since we’d left.            

Everybody was sitting down again when I came back, watching Rachel. “Okay, have fun. Oh—” I reached into my back pocket for the flier I’d picked up. “Any of you guys go to the Church of the Risen God?”

There was no response, until the guy in the corner raised a hand. “Sometimes. Pastor Vining is pretty cool. He’s the one who told us about this place.”

“Okay.” I steered my flashlight again toward the sleeping girl, breathing softly. “Make sure she gets home all right.”

Another girl nodded. I took Rachel’s arm, and we left.

“So, did we learn anything?” she asked, buckling up.

I started the car. “Everything’s a possible clue. But I don’t know what.” We drove. “I want to swing by the church again.”

She sighed. “Fine. You’re blowing your chance at hot hotel sex, though.”

I glanced over at her. “Damn it. I guess I’ll live.”

She punched my arm.

The church was still closed up and dark. I walked around it once, looking and listening for voices or lights, but it seemed as quiet as the night. I didn’t really expect to confront any killers here. I just had to make sure.

We got back to the motel after midnight. Rachel yawned, kicking off her shoes. “What’s on the to-do list for tomorrow?”

“Ask more questions.” I still had the list of Kayla’s friends to work through. “Try not to get thrown out of town by the sheriff.”

“It’s good to have goals.” She pulled off her shirt. “Mind if I watch a little more TV?”

“Knock yourself out.” I climbed out of my clothes and got into bed. Rachel watched a home improvement show while I drifted off, but I didn’t get much sleep even after she quit. Too many questions were swirling around my brain.

Uncle John, Part Three

We were eating breakfast at a café when Rachel’s phone buzzed. She smiled as she answered it. I watched her as I sipped my coffee. She nodded a lot, asked a few questions, then smiled again. “Thanks!” 

            “Car warranty renewal?” I asked.

            She giggled. “Guy from the paper. Guy is actually his name. Now I’m not sure he’s gay.” She sighed, then looked at me. “Oh. Anyway, he was looking up stuff last night and he found out that there was another series of kidnappings on campus before Garner.”

            My eyes widened a little. “Do tell.”

            “Around seven years before that, three students, all girls, went missing in a semester. They eventually were found dead in a cave down by the river—I guess there’s a river somewhere? They’d been chained up, and  . . . .” She shivered. “The guy who did it was a local farmer, Donald Evans. Killed himself.” 

She leaned forward, arms on the table. “This is pretty good work, huh? Do I get a raise, boss?”

“Huh.” I looked at my empty plate, glad I’d finished before getting this news. “Seven years? Dead suspect. That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Is it really?” She raised her eyebrows. 

Maybe not. “Okay. Go see your friend Guy. Find out if there’s anything more. Try not to flirt too much.” 

Rachel pouted. “You take all the fun out of it.”

“You’re a young hot babe. I’m a middle-aged P.I. who needs to work out more. He’s cute. You do the math.”

“Aww.” She leaned across the table to kiss me. “You’re still the only guy I want to have hot motel sex with.”

I felt better. A little. “Okay. I’m going to go talk to Chief Stogue.”

 

Stogue glared as I entered his office, as if he wanted to hurl his computer monitor at my face. “Didn’t I tell you to get out of town?”

            “You just told me to stop hanging around the sorority house. I’m not there. I’m here in your office.” I sat down.

            He leaned back in his chair, looking me over. “I checked you out, Jurgen. Chicago PD says you like to go around spreading crazy theories about vampires and monsters and ghosts. Well, we don’t have any vampires here at Rackham College. We do have cells where I can have you locked up for interfering with a police investigation. Food’s not good in our jail, but you’ve got cockroaches for extra protein if you like.”

            I’m used to not being popular. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. “Look, the only reason I’m here is to ask about the pattern you’ve got here. A seven-year pattern. Do you know about that?”

            He grimaced. “Yeah. Garner. Nothing to do with this. He’s dead.”

            “And seven years before him, a farmer named Donald Evans pulled the same stunt. Four dead girls. He’s dead too. Isn’t that at least a little interesting?”

            Stogue blinked. “You’re talking fourteen years ago. I was a cop in Milwaukee then.”

            “You keep records, don’t you? I’m sure you can look it up.”

            He stared at me for five seconds. Then, with a long sigh, he turned to his computer. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Jurgen. I’ll be sure to look into it when time permits. We’re pretty busy right now.” The message was clear: Get out.

            The Chicago cops tolerate me because sometimes I’m right about vampires and monsters—although they do their best to cover it up when it happens. But Stogue would put me on a cockroach diet, and that didn’t sound very appetizing. So I left. 

In the car I texted Rachel. Then I drove out to the Church of the Risen God.

            In daylight the church looked serene and more welcoming. The open front door helped. I parked and walked in quietly, in case I was interrupting a service in progress.

            Instead an old man with white hair was sweeping between the pews. He bent down to pick something up—a yellow paper, like the flier I’d found in the cabin—and stuffed it into his back pocket, then continued sweeping.

Stained glass windows filtered the morning light from the east. The sanctuary’s wooden pews looked well used. Red and gold candles sat on the altar, where a gray-haired Black woman was dusting and humming. I walked up and asked her if Reverend Vining was in.

            She looked up from her dusting as if she’d been lost in her work. Smiling, she pointed toward a door by the side of the riser where the choir would sing. “Have a blessed day,” she said.

            Through the door and down a short hall I found a half-open door. CHURCH OFFICE. I leaned in. “Pastor Vining?”

            Edward Vining Jr. was a young man, early thirties, with curly brown hair and a warm, welcoming smile. He stood up eagerly, as if happy for a new soul to save. Or at least some company to distract him from whatever paperwork a minister does. “Yes! Can I help you?”

            No cane. I told him my name and offered my card.

            He sat down behind a small desk with a computer next to a candle in a brass holder, red and gold, like the ones I’d seen on the altar. The office was square and clean. A crucifix hung on one wall. A bookcase covered the other wall, filled with a random collection of books—theology, philosophy, science, and a few bestsellers. I saw Dan Brown and Stephen King crammed beside Aristotle and Kant. 

            Vining looked at my card, puzzled. “A private detective. How can I help you?”

            I explained why I was on campus, but I didn’t know what to ask. Obviously he didn’t walk with a cane—although that didn’t mean he didn’t own one—but I didn’t really have anything tying him to the kidnappings, or killings. Just the church flier from the cabin. So I showed it to him.

            “I found this at the cabin where those girls were found, seven years ago. Any idea how it got there?”

            He took it from me, opened it up, turned it over, and set it down with a shrug. “We print up a hundred or so of these every week. I ask people to recycle them. But they end up all over town. I’m sorry, are you trying to imply something?”

            “I’m just trying to cover every base here.” I looked around the office. “Do any of your congregation walk with canes?”

            Vining cocked his head, staring at me with narrow eyes. “We have a lot of elderly people. I haven’t really noticed how many use canes, or walkers, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any serial killers in my pews on Sunday.”

            “It’s just that people have reported seeing a man with a cane when the girls disappeared. Now, and seven years ago.”

            Vining stiffened behind his desk. “I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Jurgen. What’s happening is—terrible. I’ve prayed about it. But the only direction I can point you in is toward Jesus.”

            I stood. “Thanks for your time. If you hear anything, please call me.”

            The woman dusting the altar was down among the pews, checking hymnals. The sweeping janitor was gone.

            I sat down on a pew to think for a moment. Maybe divine inspiration would tell me what to do next. I still had a few more names on my list of Kayla’s friends, but I didn’t have much confidence that I’d find anything useful from them. The campus police were on the case, and the state police had to be involved too, and they had more resources than me—plus, the prospect of students fleeing the campus and parents not paying tuition and alumni holding off on donations would put fire under campus cops’ feet.

            The church had been a shot in the dark anyway. Maybe I was just cynical about religion. I stood up to go, and found the gray-haired woman coming up the aisle with a plastic bucket in her hand.

            “Terrible about those missing girls.” She set the bucket down.

            I looked at her. She was old enough to remember seven years ago—and before that. “It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” 

            She nodded. “Long time. More than once.”

            “What’s going on, do you think?”

            She turned to gaze out the window at the trees outside. “The man who walked with a cane.”

            I waited a moment for her to say more. “What man?”

            “Out in the woods. Next to the river.” She looked at me. “Uncle John.”

            “Who’s that?”

            Suddenly she laughed. “The boogeyman. We called him Uncle John. My mom would always say, ‘Look out for Uncle John! Don’t let him get you!’”

            I glanced around, startled by her laughter. The sanctuary was empty. “Uncle John.”

            “That’s what they called him.” She reached into her bucket for a spray can and a rag. “Every town’s got its boogeyman, right?”

            “Where’d the name come from?”

            She shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably somebody’s uncle.”

            “That makes sense.” I stood up and handed her a card. “I didn’t get your name?”

            “Louise.” She took the card. “Louise Graham. A private detective? Do you have a gun?”

            “Not yet.” I thanked her and left.

            In the car I called Rachel. “Still there with Guy? The cute guy?”

            “Just having coffee. He’s looking stuff up on his laptop. Find out anything?”

            “Ask him about a local boogeyman named Uncle John.” I looked at the trees around the parking lot. “He walks with a cane. I’ll be right over.”

            “To check him out? Jealous much?”

            “Very. Try not to make out with him.”

            She gave me a breathy sigh. “It’ll be hard.”

            “I’ll hurry.”

 

Guy Mantell was in his early 30s—closer to Rachel’s age than mine. Black, with a trimmed beard. Attractive, I guess, if you liked broad shoulders and turtleneck shirts and strong handshakes. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled. “Rachel says you’re a P.I.?”

            “That’s right.” We were in the hallway in the student union building, where the student newspaper office was located. Rachel sat at a table, sipping coffee and grinning. “You, uh, hang around the newspaper here a lot?”

            He laughed. “Kind of. I’m a math instructor, but I worked on the paper when I was here. That was 10 years ago.” He glanced over his shoulder at the office’s open doorway. “Kind of an unofficial faculty advisor. I help with computers and stuff.”

            “Is there much news backed up?”

            “You’d be surprised. They’ve got scanned print editions going back to the 1980s. And there’s the local news, too.” He leaned down to tap at his laptop. “Rachel says you’re interested in someone called Uncle John?”

            “Yeah, sort of a local boogeyman?”

            He nodded. “Yeah. First I was looking at the stuff about Evans, the farmer.” He worked the keyboard. “He was a soybean farmer. No one knows what made him start kidnapping students. Three of them, all female. He kept them tied up in a cave by the river for two weeks. They died of exposure.”

            Yuck. I tried to stay focused. “Did he walk with a cane?”

            Mantell shook his head. “Nothing says he did. But he was 74 when they caught him, so maybe? He hung himself in jail before the trial.”

            He pointed to the screen, and I leaned over to skim an article about the case from the local newspaper. 

            “Anything before that?” Rachel scooted her chair next to him until their shoulders were touching.

            “I looked at 2001 and 1994, but I didn’t find anything.” He scrolled down, going back through the years.

            “What about Uncle John?” I asked.

            “That’s different.” He exited the screen. “There’s one or two references in the student news. One’s a letter from a student complaining about campus police—here.” He clicked. “‘What are they doing, protecting us against Uncle John?’ Stuff like that. I had to go into the college archives and the local history sites. There’s a paper in a folklore journal on urban legends that mentions him—here.”

            I peered at the screen. “ . . . in the Midwest, a character called ‘Uncle John’ or sometimes ‘Creepy John’ is said to kidnap or punish misbehaving children. He lives near lakes or rivers and is usually described or depicted as carrying a cane with—”

            Mantell switched to a different article. “This one looks at boogeyman myths from different cultures. The sack man, el coco, gogol, and others around the world. Uncle John’s in a footnote, but it does include the cane. Rachel said you were interested in canes.”

            “The witnesses both saw a man with a cane,” I said. 

            Mantell sat back and crossed his arms. “You think Uncle John is real?”

            He wasn’t saying I was crazy. But maybe he was just humoring Rachel in hope of hooking up with her. Yes, I’m insecure. My job has taught me to be skeptical of everything.

            “We know Garner and Evans were real.” I reached over his arm to take the mouse and click backward. “Maybe he can possess people.” 

Mantell pushed his chair back to let me navigate.I went to the previous article. The sentence continued: “a cane with a skull or other round object, gold or the actual skull of a small animal.”

“What is it?” Rachel planted a hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m not sure yet.” I pulled out my phone. I had April Brown’s number. She picked up on the second buzz. “H-hello?”

“April? It’s Tom Jurgen. We spoke yesterday?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She sounded nervous. “Are you still here? There’s another one missing. I’m going home this afternoon.”

“Probably a good idea. I’m still on campus. I have a question: When you saw that man, did you notice what kind of cane he was holding? What it looked like?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “It was raining. I didn’t really see it, just the bottom part, you know? I really don’t know.” 

I hid my disappointment. “You don’t happen to have a number for, uh, Liza Bowen? She’s a friend of Kayla’s, and she saw the other girl last night, right before she disappeared.”

“Liza? Yeah, I know her. Just a second.” I waited. “Here it is.” She gave me the number.”

“Thank you. Get home safe.” I hung up and started calling Liza while Rachel cocked an eyebrow at me and Mantell watched.

“Liza? It’s Tom Jurgen again. I was just wondering—is there any chance you got a look at that man’s cane? The handle of it? I know he was across the street—”

“Oh, yeah.” She sounded out of breath. “I told the police. It wasn’t like a regular handle, you know? It didn’t stick out. It looked round, the way he held it. The way his hand was on it. I thought it was funny.”

“Round.” I nodded. “Thanks. Stay safe.”

“A skull?” Rachel asked.

“She didn’t say that. But not a regular cane handle.” I put my phone away. 

“Like Uncle John,” Mantell said.

“Maybe.” My momentary surge of triumph faded. Now what? I wasn’t any closer to finding Kayla or the other girl—or their bodies—or the kidnapper. Uncle John. I couldn’t even tell the campus cops about it. Stogue would—well, he probably wouldn’t laugh. But he definitely wouldn’t listen. 

“What’s next, chief?” Rachel punched my shoulder. “Hit the streets looking for people with canes?”

Not the worst idea, but not a very efficient use of our time. And the clock was ticking for the second girl, Benji. And maybe for Kayla.

I remembered what Louise Graham had said at the church. “Uncle John hangs around by the river?” 

Mantell reached past me to tap at the keyboard. “Yeah, here.” He read: “ . . . lives near lakes or rivers and is usually described—”

“There’s a river near that cabin,” Rachel said. 

“And the first group of girls was found in a cave by the river.” I looked at Mantell’s computer. “Guy, tell us about the river?”

“We call it, uh, Pig River.” He looked a little embarrassed by the name as he started working the keyboard again. “The real name is, uh, the Wonauk River. Native American. I guess there were some pig farmers or something—”

“Got it.” Rachel had her phone out. “It runs northeast, past the campus, down by the cabin on the west. And—wait for it—about a mile from that church. It’s here on the map, see?” She shoved the phone in my face.

“Let’s check it out.” I stood up. “Thanks for your help, Guy.”

“Sure thing.” He looked at Rachel. “Any time.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Gotta run. ‘Bye!” She grabbed my hand and led me away.

“Did you have to kiss him?” I asked as we headed down the hall.

“We might need him again. I’ll make out with you in the car if that makes you feel better.”

“Rain check.” I pushed on the door. 

Uncle John, Part Four

We drove out to the cabin. I found a trail leading down the hill to the edge of the river, and we started walking. 

“I want to be supportive and everything,” Rachel said, “but what the hell are we looking for?”

It had seemed like a good idea 15 minutes ago. “I don’t know. Footprints, cane marks, caves, body parts . . .”

“Yuck.” She stepped over a tree branch. “You take me on the crappiest dates.”

The ground was damp and muddy. The river, maybe 20 yards across, ran briskly, splashing through rocks and tossing twigs at our feet. Gray clouds covered the sky. I hoped it wouldn’t rain.

After half an hour we stopped to rest. The clouds loomed above us, and I was getting hungry. Maybe this was a stupid idea.

“Hey.” Rachel pointed. “That looks like a cave.”

I scrambled up a shallow slope and pushed some bushes aside. Rachel stood behind me as I crouched and used the flashlight to peer inside. I could only see shadows, part of a rock, and water dripping from above.

“Watch out for bats,” Rachel said. “Or bears hibernating. Is this the wrong season for that? Or dragons. I’m back here if you need me. Way back.”

The bushes I was holding back looked too healthy for anyone to have been creeping in or dragging bodies inside recently. I went to one knee and swept the flashlight left and right, looking at rocks, dirt, worms—nothing until something glinted in the light.

I reached down, brushing some dirt away. 

A candle. Red, with a gold stripe.

I held it, searching my memory. I’d seen one just like it. In the cabin. The cabin where we’d found the flier for Vining’s church. 

And I’d seen the same candles on the altar in the church. And in Vining’s office.

I crawled backward out of the cave. “We have to go back to the church.” 

“Okay . . .” She lifted her eyebrows.

I showed her the candle. “I saw one like this there. And there was one in the cabin.” I turned to head back the way we’d come.

“Wait.” She had her phone out. “We’re closer than if we went back. It’s maybe half a mile. We can take an Uber back to the car.”

“Okay.” 

I thought about calling Stogue, but I didn’t think he’d pay any attention to the candles. I wasn’t sure I’d blame him. This barely counted as evidence—just an unsettling coincidence, maybe? Or a hunch.

We made our way up the river as fast as we could. Rachel kept up without griping too lopud. Ten minutes later I spotted the spire of the church reaching up toward the sky, over the crest of the slope rising up from the river. “Up here.” 

I scrambled up on hands and knees, Rachel behind me. “Stop kicking dirt on me,” she snapped.

When we reached the top I could see the back of the church. A small vegetable garden grew next to the back door, inside a low wire fence. Between us and the garden sat a shed I hadn’t seen from the parking lot in front. 

We stood in the trees, catching our breath. Rachel brushed off her jeans. The breeze rustled the leaves above us. The clouds had started to break, and shafts of sunlight speared down onto the grass.

The shed had yellow aluminum siding and a tall metal door. A long thick padlock hung on the door of the shed, locked. Rachel and I looked at each other. 

            “After you, fearless leader.” Rachel motioned me forward.

            Cautious, I led the way across the lawn to the shed. The padlock was secure. I knocked on the door. “Hello? Anyone there?”

            Nothing. I pressed my ear to the wood. Rachel rapped with her fist. “Hello?”

            “Help . . .” The voice was faint. “H-help . . .”

            We both pulled out our phones. Rachel was faster. Mostly because I stopped when the back door of the church opened. 

A man with gray hair stepped out, looked at us, then limped forward. He wore overalls and a long coat, almost to his ankles, with a hood thrown back over his shoulders, and he clutched a cane in his bony fingers.

It was the old man I’d seen sweeping the church. 

Rachel was talking into her phone. I stood in front of her, watching the man make his way across the grass.

He stopped six feet away from us.

I stared at him. “Uncle John?”

He blinked. Then he responded with a slow, slight nod. “Yes.”

I felt my spine go cold. “Are they in there? The girls?”

His eyes flickered toward the shed door. “Yes.”

“Cops are coming,” Rachel said from behind me.

“Why are they in there?” I asked.

Uncle John lifted the cane a few inches from the ground. A silver skull was mounted at the top, small and shiny. “This,” he grunted, as if his throat was dry from long silence. “Blood.”

I kept my eyes on him. “The cane?”

He tilted it toward me, letting the skull dip forward. Its empty eye sockets peered at me, dark and bottomless, and for a moment I forgot what I was doing there. What I’d been asking him. Who Uncle John was. Who I was—

Then Rachel slugged me in the back of the shoulder. I staggered, coughing, and held up a hand to block the skull from my sight. This must be how he’d kidnapped the girls. The skull . . .

Uncle John stepped back, holding the up the cane like Gandalf wielding a magical staff. I took a step toward him, then stopped. My legs felt numb, my feet stuck in mud, my arms too heavy to lift. I expected another punch from Rachel, but from the corner of my eye I saw her standing stiff, too, paralyzed, like a well-dressed mannequin, her hazelnut eyes dim. 

The skull loomed at us. Something glowed from its eye sockets, red and pulsing. It knew my name. It knew everything about me. And it wanted to erase everything from me, leave my mind blank, my body helpless . . .

I bit my lip, trying to draw a little pain, enough to shock me free, wake me up, start moving again. I tasted blood. My heartbeat jumped a little. Maybe if I forced myself, even if I bit something off, maybe—

“Dad?”

I blinked, fighting to focus my eyes. Edward Vining Jr. walked out of the church’s back door, puzzled. “What are you doing? Why are these people here?”

Dad? Oh, hell. I could see the family resemblance now—ˆ’d missed it by dismissing the old man as a janitor. Damn it . . .

Uncle John—Edward Vining Sr.?—turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s nothing, Ed. Just a few trespassers. They’re leaving now.”

Sirens sang in the distance. The younger Vining looked up. “What’s that?”

The cane’s control over me weakened. I lunged forward, spit or blood running down my chin, and grabbed it with both hands. My foot slipped and I fell, but I kept my grip, and the cane slipped from Uncle John’s startled fingers. 

Vining Jr. was standing over me, one hand on his father’s shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I rolled away, and Rachel reached down to help me scramble to my feet. She pointed at the shed. “Those girls are in there! He’s Uncle John!” The sirens grew louder. Nearer.

I held the cane, looking it over. It was thick and heavy. The skull handle looked like it would crack a real skull. I wrapped my hand around it and twisted.

Uncle John tried to lunge toward me, but his son’s hand on his shoulder held him back. “Calm down, dad,” Vining said. “Let’s wait for the cops to deal with—”

The skull turned, unscrewing from the cane. Uncle John whimpered, clawing at his son’s hand. “N-no. No!”

I dropped the skull on the ground. Something dripped from the inside of the cane. 

Blood. Drops stained the grass. I tipped it upright before I got any on my shoes.

“It needs the blood,” Uncle John murmured, swaying on his feet. “It needs their blood—”

He collapsed. “Dad!” Vining dropped to the ground, kneeling next to him. “Dad?”

New voices interrupted him. “All right, what’s going on?” It was the same two cops we’d met outside the dorm yesterday. The woman groaned. “You.”

“Yeah.” Rachel and I both pointed to the shed. “The missing girls are inside.”

“Stay right there.” She looked at Vining Jr. “You got a key for that lock?”

He looked up, confused. He glanced at Rachel and me, then back at the two cops. “No. My dad needs an ambulance.”

The Black cop was already on his radio. The female walked to the door of the shed, pressed her ear against, and pounded a fist. “Anybody in there?”

“H-help! Help us! Please!” The voices were faint. But clear.

She looked at her partner. “Get the bolt cutters from the car. Now.”

 

 

STATEMENT OF EDWARD VINING SR

 

I was dreaming. I was looking for something. In a cave, but I didn’t find it. Then in a cabin. It was dark. I had candles from the church. It was in the cabin. I could hear it, under the floor in a back room. I could hear it. It wanted—it needed—blood? 

 

There was a girl. She looked at the face when I showed it to her, and she came with me. And I gave the cane what it needed. And then there was another girl. And I was going to have to find another one. Soon.

 

But then that man came. And his girlfriend. I don’t remember anything after that.

 

Kayla was alive. Dehydrated, half-starved, and anemic from blood loss, but alive. So was Benji, in better shape. They were both in the hospital. 

I managed to call Kayla’s grandparents before the cops shoved me into the back of their patrol car. At least they didn’t handcuff us. We watched ambulances come for the girls, and for Vining’s father, who seemed dazed but unhurt; he walked to the ambulance on his own, with his son holding his arm.

            We waited for an hour at campus security HQ before Stogue had our two favorite cops bring us into his office. He crossed his arms and glared as we sat down.

            “Uncle John?” Stogue leaned forward. “That’s what you expect me to put in my report?”

            We’d already made and signed our statements. I shrugged. “You’ve got the girls. You’ve got Vining’s father. You can put whatever you want into your report.”

            “It would suck if he went to jail because he was possessed by Uncle John, whoever he is,” Rachel said. “Does he say what happened?”

            Stogue snorted. “He’s got borderline dementia. Doesn’t know where he is. He’ll end up in confinement, and we’ll burn that cane when it’s all over.”

            “Good.” Rachel nodded.

            He shook his head. “There’s nothing good about this. You’re telling me—” He picked up a stack of papers. “He went looking for that cane, first in the cave, then in Garner’s cabin, found it hidden under the floor, and it made him start grabbing college girls?”

            “The candles,” I said. “I found them in the cave, and in the cabin. For light when he searched. Plus a church flier. I saw him cleaning them up from the floor in the sanctuary. I thought he was just a janitor”

            “The cane wants blood,” Rachel said. “Uncle John would drain the girls dry to keep it full.”

            Stogue grimaced. “Yeah. We’re testing what’s left in the cane right now. But I can’t say any of that in a press conference.”

            I’d heard all this before. The authorities are always afraid of the truth. It’ll scare people, start a panic. Better to keep it quiet. It was why I’d gotten fired as a reporter years ago.

I stood up before I said anything I’d regret, and Rachel would get mad at me for. “There’s no reason to keep us here, is there?”

            He snorted. “Hell, no. Get off my campus.”

            “As soon as we can.” We left.

            Rachel made a call while we packed up at the motel. When I finished checking out at the office, Guy Mantell was standing near our car.

            I stayed inside the office while they talked. Rachel smiled a lot, and then she kissed him. He smiled shyly, waved at me as I walked out the door, and headed down the sidewalk.

            “What was that?” I couldn’t restrain myself. 

            “He’s a nice guy.” Rachel sighed. “Gay. Good thing I’ve got you.” She leaned over to kiss me.

            My phone buzzed. Unknown number, but I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking?”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Kayla Barth. My grandpa gave me your number.” She sounded young, breathless. Tired.

            “Are you all right?”

            “I’m okay. I guess. I’m in the hospital.” She stopped for a deep breath. “My grandpa told me you found me. I just wanted to say thank you.”

            “I had help.” I looked at Rachel. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

            “Yeah. I’m just so tired.”

            “Get some rest.” I hung up.

            Rachel squeezed my hand. “Let’s go home.”

            

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