“Forget it,” Joe said. “Where do you want to go now?”
“I want to talk to some people in town,” he said. “Just because the kid never made it to school doesn’t mean she didn’t exist.”
He counted seven buildings in Hell. On one side of County Road D32 stood a general store, a Marathon gas station, the Brimstone Cafe, and a souvenir shop called the Devil’s Lair. On the other side of the blacktop road was the Tree Top Tavern, a real estate office that doubled as a doughnut shop, and a second souvenir store called Lucifer’s. Halloween costumes, mostly devils, hung in the window. Near the door sat a barrel of plastic pitchforks.
“These people are scary,” Joe said as she climbed out of the Bronco.
Louis closed his door and looked around, a small memory kicking in: passing through this place on one of his foster father Phillip’s long Sunday drives. He’d been about eleven and wanted to stop and get a devil mask. His foster mother, Frances, was a little sharp as she told him she wouldn’t hear of it. It had taken him years to figure out that it had nothing to do with him but everything to do with the crucifix that hung over her bed.
Louis pulled the picture of Owen Brandt from his pocket, and they went inside the Devil’s Lair.
The old place was packed to its wood rafters. Shelves of T-shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with i’ve been to hell and back. Racks of Halloween costumes. Counters heaped with red coffee mugs, plastic skulls, bobble-head devils, and hats printed with flames.
The middle-aged guy behind the register was bagging up some shirts for a woman. Louis waited until she was gone, then introduced himself.
The man seemed impressed by the fact that there was a real private investigator in his store. “My name’s Harry,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
Louis showed him Brandt’s photo. “Do you know this man?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s Owen Brandt.”
“You know much about him?” Louis asked.
“Haven’t seen him for years,” Harry said. “He used to come into town once in a while. Buy some gas or groceries. Big, friendly guy.”
Louis held out the picture of Jean Brandt. He had cut off the missing persons part of the bulletin, leaving only her face.
“You ever see him with this woman?” Louis asked.
Harry peered at the photo and started to shake his head, but a memory hit him. “Oh, yeah, I did,” he said. “One time, maybe 1977 or so. We were all sitting over at the Brimstone having coffee, and Owen pulled up. He came inside, but she stayed in the truck. I could see her pretty good because we were in the window booth.”
“Was she alone in the truck?” Louis asked.
“Far as I could tell,” Harry said. “I remember thinking how strange it was for Owen to leave her out there in the cold while he came in and ate himself a nice hot breakfast.”
Louis picked up the two pictures.
“In fact,” Harry went on, “I remember that same winter, Fred from over at the gas station drove down to deliver Owen some firewood. Normally, Owen chopped his own or came and picked it up, but his truck was broke or something.”
“What happened?” Louis asked.
“Fred said he started to help Owen unload the wood,” Harry said. “But Owen told him never mind, and he got the woman from inside the house to come help him. It was freezing cold, and Fred said Owen made that woman make all these trips back and forth carrying logs that weighed more than she did.”
“Did you ever see a child with Owen Brandt?” Louis asked.
Harry’s brow rose in surprise. “A child? No.”
“This Fred fellow from the gas station, did he mention seeing a child?”
Harry shook his head. “He would’ve, too, because later that night at the bar, we all talked about how crappy it was to make that woman work like that.”
“Thank you,” Louis said.
He went back through the store, but Joe was gone. He stepped outside to see her coming out of the cafe, carrying two Styrofoam cups. She met him at the rear end of the Bronco and gave him one.
“You find out anything over there?” he asked.
“Just that people here liked Owen Brandt, as far as they knew him,” she said. “No one ever saw a child with him.”
“I want to try the places across the street,” Louis said.
Joe let out a small, frustrated sigh. He knew she thought this was a waste of time, but he didn’t say anything as he started across the road.
No one in the bar or the other gift shop knew Owen well enough to offer an opinion, nor had anyone ever seen him with a child. He had better luck at the real estate office. The woman behind the desk stood up quickly when Louis showed him the picture.
“Yes,” she said. “I know him. He called me once about selling that farm of his.”
“When?” Louis asked.
She opened a file cabinet behind her and came out with a thin folder. The single piece of paper in it looked like an appraisal.
“It was November 3, 1980,” she said. “He heard about the big food-processing companies that were trying to buy out the small farmers and he wanted me to come down and take a look and figure out how much he could get if he decided to sell.”
“Did you go to the farm?” Louis asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I remember we stood outside, and, well, just between me and you, the place was kind of decrepit. It was like just out in the middle of nowhere at the end of this dead-end road. I knew the big companies didn’t care about the buildings, and I could have used the commission. But I still remember wanting to get away from that place as fast as I could.”
“While you were there did you see a child? Or any evidence that a child lived there?” Louis asked.
“No,” she said. “But he wouldn’t let me inside.”
“Did you see a woman out there?” Louis asked.
“No.”
“So Brandt seemed interested in selling?”
“Very much so,” she said. “But about a month later, right after Christmas, I called him back and he said he had changed his mind. Said something about not wanting to sell something that had been in his family for generations.”
Louis thanked her and left.
Joe was sitting in the driver’s seat when he got back to the Bronco, leafing through some of the papers she had brought with her from Echo Bay.
“Find anything?” she asked.
“Just that Owen Brandt was looking to sell that farm in November, 1980, but a month later, after Jean disappeared, he suddenly changed his mind.”
Joe set the folder aside and started the engine. She did a U-turn in the parking lot, pulled up to the road, and stopped.
“We go left to get back to Ann Arbor, right?” she asked.
“We’re not going to Ann Arbor,” he said. “We’re going back to the farm.”
“Why?”
“I want to look through those storage boxes,” he said. “Kids need stuff. It couldn’t all just disappear.”
Joe shoved the Bronco into park and turned to face him. “Louis,” she said, “it’s bad enough you entered the house illegally once. Ripping open sealed boxes without a warrant is another thing altogether. You could jeopardize Shockey’s case in court.”
“I won’t be looking for evidence of a murder, just some indication that a kid lived there. No one ever needs to know.”
“And if you just happen to
