Chapter 8 - A Clock Set Six Years Ago
The officer opened the lower panel while Ortiz kept everyone back. Inside the clock was a small battery-powered motor, newly installed. It had been turning the hands without moving the pendulum.
"Somebody wanted us to notice," Elias said.
"Or wanted us busy in here while they left," Ortiz answered.
She sent an officer toward the garage. Less than a minute later, his voice crackled over the radio. A delivery van had pulled away from the rear service entrance. The gate camera had been disconnected.
Elias ran for the window. I caught the black lettering on the van before it disappeared behind the trees: COUNTY LINEN SERVICE.
"That's not our vendor," I said. "June told me the cleaners use a white truck."
Ortiz radioed the plate and dispatched a patrol car. I went to the clock. New wires ran along the hinge my father had repaired, but underneath was a narrow slot I remembered from helping him build birdhouses when I was a kid. He called them honest hiding places: obvious once you knew where to look, invisible until then.
I pushed a fingernail into the wood. A thin drawer sprang free. Inside was a folded maintenance map of the county flood stations. One site had been circled in red pencil: STATION 12.
"Our company only owns nine," Elias said.
"The county owns the others," I replied. "My father was responsible for both."
The map had been dated three days before the flood, but the red circle was fresh. Someone had used my father's old drawing to point us toward Ben.
Ortiz called for units to check Station 12. The dispatcher's answer came fast: the county had reported it abandoned. The access road was flooded by last night's storm.
"There's a raised maintenance route," I said. "My dad took us fishing there."
Elias grabbed his coat. Ortiz blocked the door.
"You two aren't going alone. You are both witnesses and possible targets."
We followed the officers in a second vehicle, far enough back to obey their instructions. At Station 12, the river slapped the concrete walls, black and restless. Flashlights crossed a steel door with a newly painted orange triangle.
There was a man's jacket hanging from the handle. Ben's jacket. I knew the torn cuff I'd sewn twice.
Ortiz took hold of the zipper. From inside the pocket she pulled a cheap prepaid phone, still powered on.
May you like
It rang in her hand.
When she answered, a man said, "Tell Harper the river gets its second chance at midnight."
