Broken Angels

73

The house was much more than ten minutes away. They drove on roundabout roads, and deep into the woods, as the snow continued to fall. A few times they encountered white-out conditions and had to stop. After about twenty minutes, they came to a curve in the road, and a private lane that all but disappeared into the trees.

Ben pulled over, waved them up alongside his van. He rolled down his window. "There's a few different ways in, but this is probably the easiest. Just follow me."

He turned onto the snow-drifted track. Jessica and Nicci followed. Soon they came into a clearing, and merged with what was probably the long driveway leading to the house.

As they approached the structure, cresting a brief rise, Jessica held up the photograph. It had been taken from the other side of the hill, but even from this distance there was no mistaking it. They had found the house that Walt Brigham had photographed.

The driveway ended in a turnaround, fifty feet from the building. There were no other vehicles in sight.

As they exited the car, the first thing Jessica noticed was not the remoteness of the house, or even the rather picturesque winter setting. It was the silence. She could almost hear the snow hitting the ground.

Jessica had been raised in South Philly, had attended Temple University, had spent all her life within a few miles of the city. These days, when she answered a homicide call in Philly she was greeted by car horns, buses, loud music. Sometimes, by the shouts of angry citizens. This was idyllic by comparison.

Ben Sharp got out of his van, left it idling. He slipped on a pair of wool gloves. "I don't think anyone lives here anymore."

"Did you know who lived here before?" Nicci asked.

"No," he said. "Sorry."

Jessica glanced at the house. There were two windows in the front, staring out like sinister eyes. There were no lights. "How did you know about this place?" she asked.

"We used to come here when we were kids. It was pretty spooky then."

"Kinda spooky now," Nicci said.

"There used to be a couple of big dogs on the property."

"They ran loose?" Jessica asked.

"Oh, yeah," Ben said, smiling. "That was the challenge."

Jessica looked around the grounds, around the area near the porch. There were no chains, no water bowls, no paw prints in the snow. "And this was how long ago?"

"Oh, a long time ago," Ben said. "Fifteen years."

Good, Jessica thought. When she'd been in uniform she'd done her time with big dogs. Every cop did.

"Well, we'll let you get back to the shop," Nicci said.

"Do you want me to wait for you?" Ben asked. "Show you the way back?"

"I think we can take it from here," Jessica said. "We appreciate your help."

Ben looked a little disappointed; perhaps because he felt like he might be part of a police investigation team now. "No problem."

"And say thanks again to Nadine for us."

"I will."

A few moments later Ben slipped into his van, backed into the turnaround, and headed toward the road. In seconds his vehicle disappeared into the pines. Jessica looked at Nicci. They both glanced toward the house. It was still there.

The porch was stone; the front door was solid oak, formidable. On it was a rusted iron knocker. It looked older than the house.

Nicci knocked with her fist. Nothing. Jessica put an ear to the door. Silence. Nicci knocked one more time, this time using the knocker, the sound echoing for a moment on the old stone porch. No response.

The window to the right of the front door was thick with years of grunge. Jessica rubbed away some of the grime, cupped her hands to the glass. All she saw was the layer of grime on the inside. It was completely opaque. She couldn't even tell if there were curtains or blinds behind the glass. The same was true of the window to the left of the door.

"So, what do you want to do?" Jessica asked.

Nicci looked toward the road, back at the house. She glanced at her watch. "What I want to do is get into a hot bubble bath with a glass of Pinot Noir. But here we are in Butter Churn, PA."

"Should we call the sheriff 's office?"

Nicci smiled. Jessica didn't know the woman all that well, but she knew the smile. Every detective had that smile in their arsenal. "Not just yet."

Nicci reached out, tried the doorknob. Locked tight. "Let me see if there's another way in," Nicci said. She jumped off the porch, headed around the side of the house.

For the first time that day, Jessica wondered if they weren't wasting their time. There really wasn't a single piece of direct evidence that linked Walt Brigham's murder to this house.

Jessica pulled out her cell phone. She decided that she'd better call Vincent. She looked at the LCD readout. No bars. No signal. She put her phone away.

A few seconds later, Nicci returned. "I found an open door."

"Where?" Jessica asked.

"Around back. It leads to the root cellar, I think. Maybe a storm cellar."

"It was open?"

"Kinda."

Jessica followed Nicci around the building. The land behind the structure led to a valley, which in turn led to the woods beyond. As they rounded the rear of the building, Jessica's sense of isolation grew. She had thought for a moment there that she might like to live somewhere like this, away from the noise, the pollution, the crime. Now she wasn't so sure.

They reached the entrance to the root cellar, a pair of heavy wooden doors built into the ground. It was crossbeamed with a four-by-four. They lifted the cross beam, set it aside, pulled open the doors.

Immediately the smell of mildew and wood rot reached their noses. There was a hint of something else, something animal.

"And they say police work isn't glamorous," Jessica said.

Nicci looked at Jessica. "Well?"

"After you, Auntie Em."

Nicci clicked on her Maglite. "Philly PD!" she yelled into the black hole. No answer. She glanced back at Jessica, fully jazzed. "I love this job."

Nicci took the lead. Jessica followed.

As more snowstorm clouds gathered over southeastern Pennsylvania, the two detectives descended into the frigid darkness of the cellar.