The Tanglewood Murders. David Weedmark
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working on a farm is really so bad, what are you doing here?”
Taylor paused for a moment before answering. Of course he could not tell his young friend the truth, but he wondered for a moment how it would sound to any ears but his own: You see, I killed someone.
A boy. It was an accident, but I took his life away, and knowing what I did took all the life from inside of me as well. I came here to escape the silence it filled me with, so I could work my body to exhaustion and so I could sleep again through the nights…
Taylor shook his head. “I like it here too,” he said. “But don’t expect me to be here for long. I have another life, you know. Some people take cruises. Some people go to Florida for a few months. I just wanted to get out of the city and get away from the stress for a while. And with an education, I can go back anytime I want. And that’s the point.”
“But we’re both here the same. I like it here better than school, but I didn’t have to go to classes to get here. That’s my point.”
Juan beamed at himself, clearly proud of his reasoning. He glanced up at Taylor’s face to see if he had succeeded in irritating the older man.
“If we’re both the same,” said Taylor, “why is it I’m driving the tractor and you’re standing in the back?”
This wiped the smile from Juan’s face. He fished a pack of Black Cats from the pocket of his plaid shirt and lit a cigarette with a wooden match. He lumbered onto the back of the tractor, standing on the hitch that joined the wagon and holding onto the back of Taylor’s seat.
“All set. Let’s go!”
Taylor started up the engine, and the old tractor bucked and groaned to life. The exhaust pipe rattled and spewed a blue cloud of diesel smoke which lingered in the still air. As he eased the tractor into gear, Taylor stood in his seat to avoid the cloud of smoke until he had passed through it.
Emerging from the shadow of the warehouse, Taylor immediately felt the soft caress of the morning sun on his back. He was looking forward to taking off his shirt soon. He longed to feel the full weight of the sun on his skin.
Juan was soon grumbling and battling his grip on the seat as the tractor crossed the first series of ruts and potholes in the dirt path. Taylor decided to take it easy on Juan and drove slowly in second gear between the blossoming grape vines as he edged his way towards the river. He savoured the smell of the wet grass, and even the smell of the diesel exhaust mingling with the smoke from his cigarette, which he held between two fingers on the top of the steering wheel.
As he rounded into the clearing and the river came into view, Taylor could smell the green stagnant water and the lingering odour of dead fish that seemed to always follow a long, hard rain. The river odours soon began to blend with the smell of charred wood and wet ashes as they neared the pump-house.
And then another smell took him by surprise. Taylor tossed his cigarette aside to let it sizzle out in the damp grass. He took the tractor out of gear, denied the engine fuel, and turned off the engine. He stood in his seat to avoid the last gasp of exhaust fumes as he listened through the sudden silence that lingered in the eerily still morning air.
“Don’t move,” he said to Juan.
Taylor inhaled deeply through his nose a second time. As soon as he filled his lungs, he grimaced with the realization of what he had just breathed in. Thick and acrid, it stung his nose and throat.
He knew this sickly, familiar smell all too well. It was already deep in his lungs, in his own body. Mingling with the odour of burnt lumber was the stench of charred human flesh.
Already Taylor’s thoughts were on Anna Wagner, the young girl who had disappeared the week before. He turned his head away, exhaling forcefully to get it out of his body, but it was too late.
The odour was deep inside him now. His stomach clenched as he brought his hand to his mouth and started to cough—a deep hack that brought the blood to his head and made his sides ache with the strain.
Juan had already scrambled down from the wagon hitch and was walking towards the old pump-house a dozen yards away. He stopped and spun around, stepping back towards the tractor, covering his nose with his shirt collar.
“Gawd! It reeks!” he shouted. “What is it?”
Taylor wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. “I told you to stay back, Juan.”
The sullen teen stepped behind the tractor. “Shit,” he groaned.
Taylor sat back in his seat, taking deep, measured breaths. The smell coming from the pump-house left little doubt as to what was inside, but as long as he stayed on the tractor and didn’t approach any closer, he could hold onto the last flake of hope for a few more seconds. He could hope he was wrong, that it was some dead animal inside. As the seconds quickly passed, however, his hope could not last against the certainty of what was waiting for him inside the blackened pump-house.
Taylor glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. Only a few minutes ago, it had promised to be a beautiful day. Much more than just the day had been shattered, Taylor was certain of that. He directed his gaze to the riverbank where the willows, pines and poplars framed a small patch of goldenrod and purple liatris. A large crow was perched on the branch of a nearby maple. It crowed once with a deep, guttural squawk. Black, with a purple sheen in the sunlight, it looked too large to be a crow as it rose into the air and soared behind the more distant trees. A raven, perhaps. Taylor watched the slow, easy movement of the water reflecting the green of the trees on either bank. He wanted to look at anything, simply anything, but this burnt-out shack.
The building had been constructed, it seemed, with little or no planning. It was less than ten feet high and about the size and shape of a single car garage. The thin beams of the flat roof had begun to sag some time ago under the weight of at least a half dozen layers of asphalt shingles. Composed of mostly red brick, shorter brown bricks appeared near the top of the south and east walls, where someone had evidently run out of supplies. Several fieldstones and rough mortar had been used above the doorframe, giving it a rustic look. These would have been used out of convenience or necessity rather than for esthetics. Most probably, the builders had run out of bricks. Fieldstones, a farmer’s curse, which worked their way up through the soil with every spring thaw, were always in plentiful supply.
Taylor noticed the frame around the single broken window was black and charred, as were the edges of the shed’s only door. The red bricks near the window and door were blackened as well. The door itself, however, was quite intact. Looking closer, he saw about half of the sagging roof had now completely collapsed. He focused on the ground and now saw the shards of glass that littered the gravel. There was another odour here too, just below the surface of wet ashes and human flesh. He should have recognized it before. Gasoline.
“What is it?” asked Juan.
“Just step back for a minute.”
Juan did as he was told at first, but as Taylor approached the doorway, the youth was soon crowding him. His hands were on Taylor’s back, peering at the doorway from behind Taylor’s arm.
“Maybe a raccoon died in there?” said Juan.
Taylor said nothing, motioning to Juan to step back. Dead raccoons and squirrels the teenager was used to, but not this smell.
“Or maybe a stray cat?” Juan offered.
“We’ll see soon enough.” Taylor pulled the ball cap from his head and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
They approached the small brick shed. Fallen shingles, fallen metal shelves and several wooden crates filled with rusted tools were blocking the window, preventing him from getting a good look inside. The door was padlocked shut.
“Do you know anything about this lock?” Taylor asked. “Or who has the key?”
“No,” said Juan. “But I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be locked.
The Mexicans used to sneak