The Tanglewood Murders. David Weedmark
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hurried over with a crowbar. Taylor wedged the end of the bar under the rusty latch. After a couple of quick tugs, the latch came free from the door. As he opened the door, the hinges squealed like nails being pulled from green wood, making Juan wince. A dozen or so steel irrigation pipes, each six inches thick and eight to twelve feet long, had fallen from their racks on the wall and were now blocking their way inside.
Warm, moist air wafted from the open doorway. The stench was now much worse. The smell of gasoline was stronger too. Because of the pipes blocking the doorway, Taylor could not get his head far enough into the doorway to see what exactly awaited them inside.
“This can’t be good,” said Taylor. “But let’s get at it.”
They made short work of the pipes, moving them onto the trailer quickly, silently. Juan tried his best to keep the collar of his t-shirt over his mouth and nose, handling the far end of each pipe to keep as far from the doorway as he could. Inside, beyond the pipes, flecks of gold buzzed and swarmed, illuminated by the large hole in the roof of the shed. Taylor had only to take a couple of steps inside before he could see what awaited him in the far corner of the shack, behind a stack of charred crates, covered by fallen shingles. Blow flies, with sheens of silver and gold, buzzed frantically, creating a morbid halo above the charred remains of Anna Wagner.
Taylor motioned Juan away. Flies swarmed around Taylor’s face as he stepped further into the shed. His skin crawled.
“Gawd, it reeks,” Juan whispered behind him. “What is it?”
Taylor gave the youth a sharp look. “Get to a phone. Call the police.”
Juan’s eyes widened as he pressed forward. “Let me see.”
“You don’t need to see this.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Juan.” Taylor leaned forward. “Juan. Call. The. Police.”
The boy tried to crane his neck over Taylor’s shoulder. Whatever sense of fear and revulsion Juan had been feeling a moment ago was now eclipsed by an intense curiosity.
“You go call the police,” Juan snapped. “You’re not the boss of me. I wanna see.”
Taylor was an inch over six feet tall, with a solid, muscular build.
The boy was not going to move him. Eagerly, Juan moved towards the doorway. With one hand, Taylor grasped the teenager’s shoulder and held him back from the doorway.
“You can’t go inside. Call the police. Tell them we’ve found Anna.”
Juan’s shoulder slumped in Taylor’s grasp, and he stopped pressing forward. He looked up at Taylor with shock, like he had just been punched in the stomach.
“It’s her, Juan. Now please call the police.”
Juan nodded, but his feet were not moving. His arms were limp at his sides, and his gaze was fixed on the darkened doorway ahead of him.
“But she ran away to Mexico,” Juan whispered. “Everyone said she ran away.”
“I know what they said. But she’s not in Mexico, Juan. You have to call the police.”
Juan took a deep breath, as if preparing himself to go back to the tractor, but lurched forward instead with a speed that caught Taylor by surprise. By the time Taylor had his hands on the boy again, Juan had already gained entry to the shack. He did not take more than a step or two inside before he stopped on his own, gasping at the sight inside.
Quickly, Taylor slipped his arm around Juan’s waist to prevent him from advancing any farther. His aim for the moment was not to drag the boy out, but to just hold him in place. Juan would leave easily enough in a few seconds, and Taylor could not let a scuffle disturb this crime scene more than they already had by trying to clear the doorway a few minutes ago.
“You’ve seen her,” Taylor said calmly. “Now give her some respect, and let’s go back outside.”
He gently pulled Juan back into the sunlight and, positioning himself between Juan and the doorway, he loosened his grip on the boy.
Juan gasped once more and began to run towards the tractor, bent forward, one hand on his mouth, the other on his stomach.
His legs bent like rubber in his long strides before he fell forward onto his hands and knees. In the tall weeds alongside the shed, he began to spasm and vomit.
Taylor gave him a minute before approaching. Juan was on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. He looked up at Taylor with wide, mournful eyes. Behind his own calm expression, Taylor was burning with rage. He was pissed with himself for letting Juan catch him off-guard as he had, for not protecting him from the sight inside, and for not protecting Anna Wagner from Juan’s morbid curiosity.
“Feeling better?” Taylor asked, without showing a trace of his pity for the kid and the harsh lesson he had just learned.
Juan looked up, wiping his mouth. His face was pale. He looked now to be only ten years old.
“Want another peek?” Taylor asked.
Juan shook his head as he climbed to his feet.
“I tried to tell you. But now you know. So get to a phone. Call 911. Get the police here. Don’t talk to anyone else on the way to the phone.”
Taylor patted his shoulder. “Do it now, Juan.”
Juan nodded and turned away. He began to run.
“Save your legs. Stop. Save your legs. Take the tractor.”
Juan stumbled back and tried to start the tractor.
“Give it some fuel.”
The boy nodded absently and opened the fuel line. The Kubota fired up and hitched as he popped the clutch, steering it around in a tight circle, before bouncing off in high gear between the rows of grapevines and the early blossoming apple trees towards the main warehouse. The right tire hit a deep rut on the side of the laneway, and several tools bounced and fell from the wagon.
Taylor looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after nine. It might take at least a half hour for the police to arrive. As he turned back towards the shed, he recognized in himself the warning signs of shock.
This isn’t the same. Isn’t the same at all, the echo of a detached voice said to him. Don’t go numb. Compose yourself.
He let his legs take him towards the water. The dams downstream had not been opened enough for the rain that had come down in the last several days. The river was full, brown and slow. A large branch, still clad in green maple leaves, floated near the shore, barely moving in the swell, looking to Taylor like another body face down in the water. He closed his eyes and for a moment was only aware of the sun, now too hot on the back of his flannel shirt, and the feel of his wet shoes and the wet cuffs of his jeans from the dew on the tall weeds. He opened his eyes and took another step towards the river, but the tranquil scene was marred by the knowledge of what lay behind him. A loud buzzing insect released a steady high-pitched tone from the trees. Fifteen years ago, Taylor would have known its name. An early cicada, perhaps, he thought vaguely.
He rubbed his eyes and walked back to the pump-house, looking at every detail, from the sprinkles of broken glass mixed in with the gravel, to the scorched bricks and mortar around the window and door. There were no discernable footsteps in the dry mud surrounding the doorway. The rain would have washed them away several times over by now. No matches visible, no cigarette butts or weapons. No monogrammed handkerchiefs left behind by a masked villain.
Taylor rolled his eyes at his ridiculous thoughts and circled around the shed before approaching the doorway.
Careful not to touch anything, he stepped inside. Flies buzzed and swarmed around his face, and Taylor became conscious again that he was breathing death into his lungs. He took light, shallow breaths, feeling particles of her corpse entering his body with every breath. He swallowed hard several