vital statistics, nobody asked Tom, Harry, or Victor about them. Tom was certain somebody had seen them at that hamburger joint off Route 272, but nobody came forward.
After a few months went by it seemed they were in the free and clear.
The only time the subject came up was during their first semester of college, during winter break. Tom mentioned to Harry and Victor during a drive to the movies one night that if they could see to it that the land those hippies were buried in was preserved somehow, their secret would be safe. After all, it was state game land. There was always the possibility the state could sell it to a real estate developer. Turn it into a housing development or something. It was something to think about.
And they did. But they kept their thoughts, and their plans, to themselves, speaking only to each other about it in those rare times the subject came up.
And the months turned into years.
In time, the Missing Persons posters came down.
And the speculation of whatever might have happened to Billy Thompson and Candace Drombowsky eventually faded from local memory.
Chapter One
The hot coffee warmed Neal Ashford’s hands as he settled back in the alley off Twenty-third and Broad Street. He took a sip, letting the warm liquid run through him. Late spring nights could still be pretty chilly in the city, but it was at least feasible to sleep outside if the homeless shelters were filled up. You couldn’t do that in the winter.
Neal Ashford had been homeless for three months since being booted out of his apartment for failing to pay the rent. He was probably the sanest homeless person he knew. Unlike all the other homeless folks he’d met, he wasn’t a mental case, nor did he have a problem with alcohol or drugs. Well, at least not a serious one. He’d gone off the deep end when he lost his job at Harvey Industries thanks to their outsourcing program, but who wouldn’t? Neal had tried to land another position at a competing firm but was unable to. He was still having problems with his ex-wife, Linda, over custody of their twin daughters, and the combined alimony and child support payments were murder.
When he was a young man he used to ease his problems in the bottle and he’d taken to that again, only this time he didn’t stop until he was two months overdue on the rent. During that time he was still hustling for jobs wherever he could, even working a few under-the-table paying gigs, but it wasn’t enough to meet his living expenses. In short order his car was repossessed, a Sheriff’s Deputy served him papers on a lawsuit brought against him by his credit card company for failure to make payments, and then he was finally booted out of his apartment — locked out of it, actually. Assholes wouldn’t even let him get his stuff. He’d tried bunking with his ex- girlfriend, Mary, but she’d gone back to her husband. Former co-workers were no help.
Leaving Neal with no choice but to strike out on the streets.
He’d done okay so far. He’d found shelter at the YMCA and lived there for a month and a half. Once the weather began to warm up with the coming of spring, he’d ventured out and eventually became friends with another homeless guy who hung out near the convention center. Arnie Kolvak showed him the ins and outs of panhandling for change, hustling businessmen to remove snow from the windshields of their vehicles after light snowfall. If you hustled, you could make thirty, maybe forty bucks a day. Enough to eat and have plenty left over to pool together to rent a cheap room for the night.
Some nights, though, he had no such luck.
Neal sipped his coffee. Center City was bustling, and Neal wanted to head farther east to some more remote locations he knew of. There was an alley on Seventh and Vine that was pretty quiet. He’d slept behind a trash dumpster there one night last week and done okay. He was a good mile away from that alley now and he rose to his feet, his knee joints popping.
He started making his way down the alley. His shoes were ratted and worn, his jeans caked with dirt and mud, his army surplus jacket giving him warmth and a nice layer of cushion for those nights he did have to sleep outside. The jacket had deep pockets woven in the seams where he stashed items essential to his survival on the streets — a toothbrush and a roll of toothpaste, a comb, a stick of deodorant, a small handheld mirror, mouthwash, a wallet, the keys to his old apartment and car, a small address book, several pens, a Swiss Army knife. Stashed deep in another pocket was a wadded up blanket he’d swiped from the Salvation Army a month back; a further sources of comfort, if you could call it that.
He reached the mouth of the alley and looked both ways. The street was relatively deserted, but there was an SUV approaching from fifty yards away. Neal started crossing, sipping his coffee as he went. He’d just reached the curb when the SUV slowed down behind him. He heard voices coming from inside the vehicle — it sounded like kids — and then the rear passenger side door opened.
He looked behind him just as a couple of teenage boys ran up to him, their expressions malevolent, evil. Neal had them pegged on sight: middle-class white boys from the suburbs. He’d heard stories about teenagers that sometimes went on rampages, beating up homeless people for thrills, and he started running toward the opposite alley when they grabbed him.
“Come on, get him David,
Rough hands grabbed Neal’s jacket. He fought back, landing a fist against one smooth-shaven cheek. An arm locked around his throat and one of the kids loomed in front of him, looking pissed off. “Motherfuck,” he said. The kid reared back, fist clenched, and popped him hard in the face.
Neal saw stars and, before he could collect his bearings, he was punched again. He felt blood spurt out of his nostrils. He felt himself start to go down but a pair of hands held him up. They started to drag him to the car. “Come on, you worthless piece of shit,” one of the kids muttered. Neal opened his mouth to scream and something was shoved into his mouth, stifling it. He tried to spit it out but a hand was holding it in. As he was pushed into the vehicle, another pair of hands managed to wrap a bandana around his mouth, tying the gag firmly into place. Car doors slammed. “Okay, let’s go!
The driver pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. A pair of guys were in the rear of the vehicle and they went to work on Neal the minute he was thrown into the SUV, forcing him to the floor. One began tying him up with what felt like rope while another one — the guy who’d punched him in the face — leaned close to him. “Gotcha, you fucking dirty piece of shit!” He looped another fist down into his face.
That single blow was the opening of a floodgate as fists were rained down on him, striking him everywhere — the face, back, chest, stomach. A booted foot struck him repeatedly in the small of his back and Neal screamed through the gag. His arms were tied behind his back at the wrists, and his feet were tied together at the ankles. He rolled on the floor of the vehicle, trying to escape the blows, but they held him down and beat him, laughing all the while until he finally blacked out.
When they got him back to Scott Bradfield’s house in Spring Valley, David Bruce had to threaten to kick the crap out of them if they didn’t shut their fucking holes. Steve Downing was giggling like a goddamn kid, and Gordon Smith was making sounds of disgust. The homeless guy had shit his pants shortly after they started whaling on him while they were still in Philly, and David had shouted for Gordon and Steve to stop. Steve had kept kicking the guy, though, and David had to grab the idiot by a lock of his hair and haul him back. “He’s knocked out, fuckhead,” he’d said. “Stop it! You want to kill him?”
Steve had stopped and settled back against the window. Steve was a walking cliche; guy was a chick magnet and dumber than a stump. The middle seat of the SUV had been hauled out months before, giving them a nice little area to play in as Scott piloted the vehicle back to Lancaster County. The homeless guy was lying on the floor like a sack of shit, bloody and stinking like a goddamn cow.
And now Steve and Gordon were breaking up in laughter again as David and Scott carried the homeless guy out of the SUV. “Shut the fuck up!” David hissed. He glared at him. At six foot one with a lean build, David could be intimidating when he had to be. A lock of brown hair fell over his forehead.
