Tony’s cell phone purred in my ear as I drove, evidence he hadn’t turned it off.

He answered with crackle and static, fading in and out, words plucked at by the wind and sky that carried them. “Miss me already?”

“I talked to the local Doc,” I said. “Heading back to Aidan Peale’s. Try to find this mysterious glass castle. Sounds like the man’s legit crazy. Figured I should let someone know, in case it goes sideways.”

Tony argued in fits and starts of broken signal. “Call the Sheriff,” he implored. 

I reminded him that poking around had already gotten me hauled in once and telegraphing the poke would end my investigation quick as a rattlesnake bite. “The local doc doesn’t trust him and neither do I.”

Tony insisted I pick him up at the motel, that his art friends could wait. It sounded like babysitting, but I went along. Aidan was an unpredictable sort, who kept one guessing as to when he’d slip into psychosis. Or take after you with a pitchfork. Also, Tony was good company, and as another plus, he had training dealing with whackos.

We rolled onto the property under the declining light of dusk. Early evening in the Tobacco Valley in the shadow of the Rockies. 

Climbing out of the Tacoma, brisk air cleared the head. The main track, still littered with deteriorated vehicles scuffed with dirt, hoods yawning at the sky, seemed an unlikely route.

“It’d be nice to catch him off guard,” I said. “He is psychotic, so maybe we flank him. Increase our chances of success.”

“Don’t we have to find him first?” Tony asked.

“Point.” I scanned the edges of the road. “I’m betting on the main yard based on the work he was focused on when I was by earlier. Chances are good he’ll keep close to the greenhouse. Maybe cut around the east or west side, through the trees?”

Tony pointed. “I’d say west. Looks like an easier path.”

“It’s getting dark fast.” I grabbed a flashlight from the glovebox and handed it to him. “I’ve got a penlight in my jacket. Should be about two hundred yards.”

We meandered through the trees with the ozone tang of snow coming off the mountains. Filtered light sculpted swerving lines into the ground. Shadows blended with the striated wall of pines along the trail, creating a gossamer veil between our intrusion and the main entrance. 

Silence wrapped us in cold, dispatching shivers along my spinal column. Goosebumps prickled my skin as the temperature dropped and the sense of danger heightened.

My thoughts turned on Doc Myrtle’s comments about Aidan’s mental stability, and it’s potential danger for a young child in his care. Add to that her concerns about Sheriff de Lude, that he was failing at his job. She impressed me as a trustworthy sort. Direct, competent, insightful. 

Along side of Doc’s misgivings rode the sheriff’s dismissal of the case. Just a domestic problem, he claimed. Same as always. His approach to the situation had to be for a reason. Even if he was out of step with the music, he’d still spent half his life in the dance, dealing with hard cases and miscreants. Crazy by genetics or by choice was still crazy. The man had to know a bit about unstable characters, especially the repeat offenders. By all accounts, Aidan fit that bill.

Our steps were light. More to prevent a trip and fall than an effort to be sneaky. Aidan might be a dangerous man, but I’d seen no sign of firearms. Or lances. Even so, I winced at each crunch of my footsteps against the forest floor. Tony’s tread was quieter, more cautious, and I wished I had his feet as we closed in on the main of it. Travel of this sort allowed less cognitive room for solving the constitutional differences of de Lude versus Doc Gibbons. That conundrum would have to wait for later.

A lightening struck spruce spanned the pathway. I crossed over, Tony close on my heels. The skittering of wood beetles on the tree’s surface echoed through the quiet evening, and creaking branches elevated the haunting mood. A crusty 40’s era pickup gaped at us with empty window sockets. A few yards later, we skirted past an El Camino trapped in a tree, and arrived at a mottled blue and rust Buick Riviera. 

The roof of the greenhouse glowed in the last bit of daylight that brushed its tattered skin. Faint luminescence from within the structure produced a surreal image of light painting that stole attention from the main clearing. 

I motioned Tony to flank left and come up on the backside of the building. Growing darkness created eerie shapes along the lower inside wall of the greenhouse, below the three foot line. Slow, easy steps gave my pupils time to adjust to nuances of increasing murkiness. 

The search didn’t take long. 

Not thirty feet from the entrance to the hothouse lay an adult figure in exaggerated supine form, legs akimbo. A projectile jutted from its midriff. 

I stopped three feet away and squatted to inspect. A sweep of penlight revealed the long, thin object to be a pitchfork with tines buried to the hilt. The body was male, clearly expired, still wearing the ratty tan work jacket and overalls, boots missing and gray and red wool socks sporting clean bottoms. Out of the center of his torso, a pitchfork stood tall and straight. 

Aidan Peale.

A few brush strokes from a branch had smoothed the dirt around his body. No human tracks close enough for stabbing. A medium sized animal, maybe a fox or coyote, had already been and gone based on indentations in the sandy dirt.

My friend appeared from the left of the ramshackle hut and snapped on his flashlight. “Holy macaroni,” he said, running the beam the length of Aidan’s lifeless form.

An owl hooted at us from high branches.

The beam of my penlight stuck on Aidan’s face, his mouth pinned open by surprise. “Looks pretty dead to me.”

Tony examined the corpse from above with a sweep of his flashlight. “You sound disappointed.” The beam rode up the handle of the deadly implement, gliding back down to illuminate the blood soaked overalls. “Best limit our movement. Preserve the scene as much as possible.”

I thumped a fist against my thigh. “Dammit! How did this happen? Did I screw up, Tony?” I stood, squatted, stood and paced. “What the hell? We were looking for a kid, for Christ’s sake.” The clench in my jaw began to grind, chewing senselessness out of this chaos.

“Well, it’s for Christ’s sake we still need to find her.” He swept light across the path toward the greenhouse. “And it doesn’t look like this guy’s going to help.”

“Problem one is I got it wrong. This was prime suspect, Mr. Lawman, and my key chance to find the child. If he was, in fact, guilty of abducting her, she is now completely alone, in desperate straits.”

My beam swept the ground in erratic circles around the dead man. One of the predator tracks stood out with finer definition. I moved closer.

“Oh shit,” I stuttered breathlessly, tracing the impressions with my light beam. The scuff marks transformed into small shoe prints left in the moist dirt.

“What’s got you riled?” Tony probed me with his flashlight.

“Tracks leading into the greenhouse. Baby tracks.”

“Maybe wait a minute,” he said.

I ignored the warning and kept moving. The footprint size worried me. 

The glass and wooden structure occupied more space than I’d realized. The level of humidity inside engulfed me, all damp earth and mildew in my nostrils despite the presence of fresh flower blossoms. Pots bent a curve in their shelves, crumbles of potting soil scattered around them. Fruit flies and spiders crawled on the plastic where the last light of day touched the outer surface. A hose dripped rhythmic warnings from a hidden place. Dead leaves crackled beneath my shoes. 

Heavy air loaded my expectations with dread, as I moved like a sloth in molasses. Based on those tracks, the little girl had to be hiding in here. I could except no other option. Alone in the woods, she had little chance of survival. We would never find her out there unless she made noise. And after the traumatic scene out front, she was unlikely to trust anyone who came looking.

Several minutes of sweeping the plants and floor with my flashlight  finally revealed her feral, wooly frame. She had tucked her body between the legs of an upright trough. Frightful blue eyes observed me with animal caution. She clutched one of the tongueless, man-size boots against her chest. 

“Hey there,” I whispered. “Kayla?” 

Her lips moved almost imperceptibly.

I leaned in with care, listening, afraid of spooking her. If she had witnessed any part of the scene out front her trauma would be over the moon.

“Man oh man, I really botched this didn’t I?” Words more for my ears than hers. “Can I come closer? Whatcha got there? Is that Daddy’s boot?”

Kayla’s eyes widened as she tightened her grip on the item.

Tony bellowed from near the entrance. “What are you doing in there?” 

The child tensed, knuckles whitening against old leather.

“It’s okay, sweetie. That’s my friend. He’s a policeman. Like Officer Ollie.”

This appeared to calm her a notch. Her lips mumbled indiscernible sounds. One tiny fist pounded her dirt-encrusted knee.

I scooted a bit nearer, easing a hand toward her. “Can you come out of there and meet my friend?” The space was a tight fit. 

She allowed my touch. With one hand on her shoulder, I coaxed her forward. 

“Connor?” Tony called out. 

She squeezed the boot more tightly. My friend’s impatience threatened to disrupt the precarious social balance between myself and the little girl. 

“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s a friend.”

Kayla permitted me to guide her from beneath the trough. I pulled her close to my chest, holding her trembling body for a moment before lifting her. 

As I scooped her into my arms, her words became discernible. “Glass castle dreaming, glass castle dreaming.” She repeated the phrase without ceasing, a mantra that somehow kept her centered. 

I carried her to the exit, using my frame to prevent a view of her father’s impaled remains. Though her reaction indicated she’d already seen him, avoiding further exposure made sense.

“Damn,” Tony whispered when he saw us.

“I’m going to get her to the Doc,” I said as I passed. “I think she’s in a state of catatonia.”

“Got it, Pard.” Tony agreed. “I’ll stay. Just don’t forget where to send the calvary.”

I eased her into the Tacoma and got the seatbelt around her tiny physique.

She kept repeating the short group of words, “Glass castle dreaming, glass castle dreaming.” 

When my hands released her, she pulled her knees up and began pounding them.

I jammed the truck in reverse and placed a hand over hers. She stopped hitting herself at my touch. 

Manipulating the vehicle kept my mind from the intrusive thoughts punching at my conscience—taunting reminders of failure. Sweat beaded my brow, my pulse throbbed in my ears, slapping out guilty beats. Loser, loser, loser. Your arrogance got a man killed, left this poor child alone with death.

I gripped the wheel until it pinched. Focus. Get Kayla to the Doc. Maintain professional distance. Rumination on failure to protect the girl interferes with her safety. Cocoon your mind from the devastation you’ve caused. 

Thick fingers lifted free of Kayla as I backed the truck away from the ugly death of Aidan Peale. She started thumping her knees again, while I fished for my phone and punched buttons until I saw Doc Myrtle’s number pop up. 

“I’ve got the little girl,” I said when she picked up. “A bad scenario. Can you meet me at the clinic?”

Her voice a thousand miles away, agreed.

A second call, to nine-one-one, landed at Deputy Spiesz. Small town advantage. I gave the quick version. “Need someone out to Aidan Peale’s greenhouse. My partner is waiting.”

“Okey dokey. I’ll get the Sheriff.” Nary a question. Odd duck, that deputy.

I told Kayla a silly story about pandas riding unicorns. She sat the entire trip, eyes forward, clinging to the boot, mumbling about glass castle dreaming.