Gone by T. J. Brearton
PROLOGUE / Gone
The brown house sat back from the road on the edge of town, a single-story home with a full basement. The garage door was open, a red tricycle inside. An empty coffee mug sat on the deck. Orange leaves stirred in the breeze. As the October sun sank in the west, the house grew dark. No one turned on a light.
A teddy bear lay abandoned on the floor in one of the bedrooms. A half-drunk glass of water rested on the nightstand beside the unmade bed. Magnets held drawings and photographs on the kitchen fridge; drawings of stick figures, photos of smiling people. Water dripped from the tap onto the dishes piled in the sink.
In the basement family room, a bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table, kernels littered about. The TV was on, light flickering over the unoccupied couch. The door to the basement office was open. On the desk, wires and cords lay disconnected.
The last log smoldered down to dying embers in the woodstove. Smoke rose up the chimney and dissipated into the air. The sun sank beneath the jagged treetops, reddish light diffused through the pines. A gust of wind twisted the tire swing hanging from an oak tree, the suspension chain creaked. The wind rustled the fallen leaves amid the maple grove, soughed through the surrounding woods, rippling the surface of a small pond.
The road in front of the house was quiet, the workday over, the people gone home to eat dinner, watch the evening news. But not in the brown house. The sunlight waned in the forest, then disappeared as the last ember in the brown house turned cold and black.
FRIDAY
CHAPTER ONE / Shot out of the Sky
Detective Rondeau cursed under his breath. He had a wadded-up paper towel in his hand and a darkening stain on his new pants. The cup of coffee had been too full.
“Shit.”
He dumped some of it in the nearby sink. He was trying to remember what his sister had once told him about how to treat coffee stains.
The office door opened. It was Eric Stokes, the new guy with the big crush on the DA. He wasn’t really new; he’d been with the department for eighteen months, but he was new until someone else came along and bumped him up.
“Oh,” Stokes said, and his gaze fell to the stain on Rondeau’s pants. “Sorry. Personal time?”
“That’s good. That’s a good one.”
“You want me to get you something?”
“Like what?”
“Like a K9 unit? The dogs, you know — those tongues are like sandpaper. Take the paint off walls.”
“What is it, Stokes?”
Stokes came further into the room. Rondeau’s office wasn’t much bigger than a large closet, and it took two steps for Stokes to reach the desk. Besides the desk, there were eight — count them, eight — file cabinets, and a terrible excuse for a kitchenette with a shallow sink housed in fake-wood cabinetry. There was one window, partly obscured by a tower of manila file folders, each crammed beyond the limit. Rondeau rarely tidied up and tipped the night cleaner to stay away.
He set down his coffee and dropped the crumpled paper towel beside it. He folded his arms. “Well? What is it? Jesus, new guy, the suspense is killing me.”
“You, ah, well, you’re going to love this.”
“Am I going to love it? Okay. Well, as long as I’m going to love it. Spit it out.”
The door to Rondeau’s office, left ajar by Stokes, squeaked all the way open. Two state troopers peered tentatively inside.
Rondeau straightened his back and dropped his arms, as if he were standing at attention, still that kid from Fort Bragg. He got that way whenever the staties were around, because they resembled soldiers. His heart, which was set to cruise control these days, dropped into a gear he’d forgotten was there. He stuck out his jaw at the three people crowding his small space.
“Okay. Hi guys. Now you’ve got my attention. Stokes? You want to let me in on something? Maize? Crowley?”
Stokes finally just blurted it out. “Someone shot down a drone.”
“A what? A drone?”
“Shot it out the sky.”
Rondeau tried to absorb this. He checked with the troopers to see if maybe Stokes had lost his mind. Their faces were serious.
“Okay, so, someone shot down a drone. Roger that. And you’re coming to me — why?”
Stokes fidgeted. “Owner of the drone — a photographer — tracked down where it landed.”
“Beginning to come a little clearer. Why don’t you—”
The female trooper, Crowley, cut in. “It landed on your property.”
And there it was. “Shit,” said Rondeau for the second time that morning. He grabbed his coat and rushed out.
CHAPTER TWO / Them
Rondeau’s home sat back from the main road between New Brighton and Hazleton. He’d taken the place over a couple years before. It was 1930s vintage, and its decay seemed to be accelerating. Roof in disrepair, sagging in the middle. Dry rot along the foundation. Lawn overgrown. The whitewashed fence was about the only thing that looked okay. He just didn’t have the time to keep up with it all.
He pulled up behind the trooper vehicle in his driveway and sat for a moment, engine idling. There were rusty barrels in the yard, a junker car in the tall grass, an old refrigerator. Wooden pallets were stacked in rotting towers. Those things weren’t his mess. They’d come with the place.