The walls of the room felt too close together. I unzipped my small duffel, planning to store the bits and pieces of clothing I’d brought along in the tiny bureau drawers. Thoughts of Aidan Peale’s potential menace raced around like barn mice in my skull. A visit to the cops was a better idea than unpacking. 

“I should talk to them,” I muttered to myself. “Get a feel for the legal implications of this chess match. Clarify Aidan Peale’s kind of crazy. Be good to know if he’s dangerous. Or just nuts.” 

I flipped the lid of my suitcase closed. Extra minutes of chatter to make nice with the local LEOs would waste time the child didn’t have. It also risked shutting me down before I got started.

A light rain followed as I drove, rivulets blurring my view of the landscape. The rat-a-tat-tat on the car’s roof set a backbeat for the steady whoosh of the wipers. I drove the curves and shadows south and then east from Eureka to the destination provided by Vicky and Renée. 

“East on Cliff, right on Central, left at Riverside, left on Sinclair Creek, left on NF-864. Aidan’s junk pile is a half mile further on the left,” Vicky had told me in staccato phrases. “Can’t miss the Studebaker absent its wheels at the gate,” Renée added.

A slow drive. 

Daylight had cleared the mountaintops, while clouds suppressed its brilliance. Rain cleaned the air, and I filled my nostrils with a refreshing scent of damp earth and perennial pine. The mountains stood tall and menacing, their jagged peaks jutted skyward like teeth bared in a snarl. Portent of the treacherous investigation ahead. Thunder rumbled its agreement. 

The Tacoma handled the gentle rise in elevation without complaint. Still, I worried about the young girl lost in the increasing density of the forest.

Cool, damp air invigorated my synapses through the half-open window. A long night’s drive made the coming day longer. If this guy Aidan was bent on hiding his daughter, I’d need a crisp, sharp mind to trip him up. Trouble was, the fog that covered the mountaintops had seeped into my skull. 

My headlights found the crippled Studebaker, and I turned onto an extended drive. Cloud cover parted as my tires rolled over gravel toward the point I hoped to find Kayla Peale, alive and well. 

Pine and spruce skirted the main pathway. Scraps of leftover civilization sprouted like metal weeds among the trees. Raised hoods of broken-down vehicles shouted silent protests at the sky. Unhinged doors stuck permanently open, with numbers clumsily spray-painted on a few. Scavengers had stacked used tires haphazardly at uneven heights in random spots.

I stepped out of the Tacoma and surveyed the yard. 

A rustle of wind and chirping crickets permeated the quiet. Pine needles carpeted the ground. Ozone drifted off the mountain peaks visible between the treetops, mixed with a faint smell of gasoline and engine oil.

My keenly trained eye caught the glint of spark plugs, the glitter of dropped screws, and the scattered remains of vehicular body parts littered across the clearing. Soft silvery light from a diffused sun illuminated this mechanical debris. They made a chaotic puzzle, abandoned by some mischievous deity, waiting to be pieced back together into a semblance of order.

A larger-than-life greenhouse backed the scene, presenting two halves of a contradictory story. Shiny and complete on one side, plastic and scrap wood on the other. As if two separate individuals owned the structure, one industrious and keen, their counterpart a shiftless hack. Wide green leaves pressed against the semi-transparent walls from the inside in an incompetent attempt at escape.

Branches rustled in a quick breeze as I moved toward the ambiguous structure. 

The plastic covering on the unfinished half rattled. Birds trilled and cried. A distant wolf howled at my intrusion, followed by the scream of a predatory bird.

I hesitated at the sound and scanned for danger.

A soft orange glow of morning sunshine broke through, painting Aidan’s collection of castoff cars and trucks with a nostalgic tint. Rounded hoods and smooth curves glistened, enhanced by the remnants of the brief storm. The light inspired pleasant memories of my father’s junkyard before it became a Toyota dealership. Glimpses of my child-self crawling in the wreckage, uncovering the knickknacks and novelties, brought joy—a rarity in my childhood. If the missing youngster was in that muddle, I’d never find her.

I shook off the ominous predictions. Finding lost people or treasure came with psychological pranks.

“I know you,” a high tenor barked at me from over my shoulder. Way too close for comfort, it spun me on my heels.

The source had a wiry build, and despite obvious signs of being human, exuded the fierce determination of a badger. He held a pitchfork in front of his body with the readiness of a sentinel.

“You’re a hater with hate on your mind seeking to destroy the sanctity of family values,” the man said with absolute certainty.

I pulled out my best salesman grin. “Must have me confused with another, sir. I’m just here to find parts for my truck. You the Mister Aidan Peale, who owns this place?” With a broad sweep of my hand, I told him, “My daddy had a collection like it when I was young.”

The rangy hermit hoisted the pitchfork with one arm and aimed it at my chest. His eyes burned with feral indignation. “I see your tormented soul. I see the twisted ideas you have to correct your mistakes. You think destroying other families will return the value to your own. You are wrong, my friend!”

My hands went up automatically. His uncanny reading of my personal history threatened to derail the ruse. Whatever kind of lunacy lived inside that cranial bulb came with preternatural clairvoyance. A quick bite on my tongue set me back on plan. “I’m just here to find some parts for my truck.” I indicated the damaged bumper of the Toyota.

“You think I got parts for that thing? I run a legitimate business. Asides, this town speaks to me. I know from whence ye came.”

I catalogued his linguistic shift to Old English. This guy had skills with which I was unfamiliar. Could I get any further playing the innocent hunter of spare parts? If it failed, he might start jabbing with that pitchfork. Let the charade go, and he’d likely use the story he’d made up for snoops who came hunting his child.

“Fair enough.” I let my arms drop, keeping my palms toward him. “So, let’s get to the point. Where are you keeping your daughter? You have a babysitter watching her up at the house?”

Aidan shifted personas again, becoming the congenial neighbor. “That’s thoughtful of you to ask. My daughter is well taken care of now. She has two mothers, you know.” His eyes turned toward the house. “They both frighten me with theologies and misinterpretations.”

I took advantage of this perspective shift and said, “Kayla is safe then.” An assumption made to improve our relationship. I nodded towards the scrapyard. “She likes to play in the treasure?”

Aidan scanned the mess like he’d never seen it before. He shook his head as if to rattle memories into place.

“I loved playing in my Dad’s treasure piles,” I said. “That’s what I called them. Spent hours crawling around inside, climbing among the wreckage, scaring up a shifter for a walking stick, a door panel for my shield, or maybe a drive shaft to make a bazooka. My own private island and fortress.”

Aidan pinched his narrow face at me. “Why would I do that? Let a young child roam around in the remnants of other people’s wreckage like a foundling? Ludicrous and shameful. She’s not around. She’s not here. Go away. You won’t find her. You’ll never find her. Not here. She’s a child, an urchin, a little thief who grabs pieces of a person and hides it where they can’t find it.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Peale. You say your daughter Kayla is a thief? She steal from you?”

He stabbed the pitchfork tines in the air between us. “You don’t listen. She takes bits of your soul. She can’t be trusted.”

“Did you need to get something back from Kayla, Aidan? Something she took?”

The fork went high. His face reddened, and his knuckles turned white around the handle. He made a sweeping downward arc that drove the tines halfway into the earth. “It’s the end of the conversation. I’ve set my line.”

My muscles quivered beneath my skin, threatening to expose the moment of terror. I forced an even breath and blinked my eyes slow, holding a steady smile that hid the wild heartbeat trying to smash its way out of my chest. 

“Have you done something to protect Kayla from being a wicked child?” I asked.

Peale straightened. His expression showed surprise. “Kayla is a good girl. She is like an angel on Earth.”

I rolled my shoulders to loosen tension. “Why don’t you tell me where she is? Then I can go home and say hi to my own little girl.”

“I don’t know where she is. Why would I know where she is?” His eyes became unfocused and hazy, like a fog had rolled in and obscured his vision. They darted back and forth, unable to focus on one thing for too long. “Talk to Jezebel. She wants a night out, she’ll just drop the girl at Hugh and Faye Jenkins without—” He squinted at something over my shoulder so intently, I almost turned to look. Then his eyes were back on me, clearer but confused, like he’d forgotten who I was. “Without saying a word to me.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “Doesn’t want me to know what a wench she’s become.” His muscles tensed, bulging and straining as he jerked the tines from the ground, leaving a small crater behind. “That’s probably what she’s done.”

My hands rose again, this time in a sign of surrender. “Mr. Peale, I didn’t come to offend or stir trouble. I’m just a gumshoe looking for a little girl who might be lost in the woods. Your wife asked me to check with you, so that’s what I’m here to do.”

Aidan Peale just stared at me. Or through me might be more apt. His gaze studied a point beyond the present moment, a place that I couldn’t yet discern, and likely determined my future. At least the next few seconds of it.

After several of those seconds passed without a word from him, I honored his strange, disconnected message by sauntering back to the truck. His half-cocked posture of savagery combined with the frightened and detached glare filled my rearview as I drove away. He kept eyes on me until the curve obscured us both. If he’d hidden the girl away on this property, it might take a psychological mastermind to locate her.

The Tacoma picked up speed as I raced back toward town. My eye glimpsed a light blue F-150 in the weeds, but I’d put a visit to the Eureka Police Station off too long. If they didn’t have a file on Aidan that could help me, at least I could find out how much of a threat he actually presented.