He sighed, and I wished I could have read his thoughts. But I couldn’t, and the response he gave left me guessing more even more. It was a simple, “Okay, Maddy.”
At least we were back to Maddy, not Madeleine, and that was always a good sign.
Adam had to go, his meeting was about to start, so we ended the call. I rinsed out my glass and brushed the rest of the crumbs into the sink. I had several hours to go before meeting Adam. I glanced out the window, and suddenly I had a fabulous idea on how to fill the time.
There was something I had yet to do, something that had been bugging me for a while. I had yet to return to the spot where J.T. had buried the lockbox for Ami. Maybe I would be able to dig today. We’d had days and days of mild weather, and I suspected the ground may very well be workable now. I just felt in my bones that the lockbox contained something related to this mystery. It had been October when Ami had asked J.T. to throw it in the sea.
What could be in that thing? If all went well, I’d soon find out.
So, without further ado, I showered and dressed, and then headed down to the dock. A short while later I was on Fade Island. A quick ride in the Navigator, and I was once again walking into the cottage I’d once called home. I hoped I would someday call it home again…someday soon.
The shovel was in the basement where I’d left it after my last foray. I grabbed it, raced back to the vehicle, and continued on my way over to the east side of the island. Much like my last visit, I’d yet to cross paths with any of the island residents. The lights had burned brightly at the café, but I’d not slowed down. Adam wasn’t on the island—obviously—and I suspected if Max were here, he’d be up at Adam’s compound. So I raced past that driveway at a speed that would’ve made the owner of the island proud.
When I reached the access road, I found it to be in as terrible shape as ever, so I slowed down considerably. I certainly didn’t want to cause another slow leak in one of the tires. I wondered who’d ended up changing that flat tire Adam had told me about. Probably Max. I chuckled to myself; apparently someone had come up with a replacement tire iron after all.
When I finally reached what appeared to be approximately the same place I’d stopped last time, I parked and set off on foot. I walked for a while, and eventually came upon the area where J.T. had been digging. The original tire iron from the Navigator still marked the spot. It was leaning, as before, but firmly in place.
I sped up. As best as I could, that is. The snow that had melted had left the ground a soggy, muddy mess. It felt as if my hiking boots were being sucked into the earth with every step. When I finally reached the tire iron, I pulled it from the ground and set it down, making a note to myself to remember to wipe it clean and return it to the Nav.
Finally, I began to dig…
And dig…
And dig…
“God,” I mumbled, stopping to catch my breath. “Where is this thing?”
I proceeded to dig some more.
My arms grew sore and I was about to give up, but just then the shovel hit something solid. The ting noise that rang out sounded like metal on metal. The lockbox, at last.
I moved some loosened dirt aside with the head of the shovel and caught sight of a metal handle. Tossing the shovel aside, I got down on my knees. My jeans were a muddy mess already, so what was a little more dirt? I leaned down over the hole I’d dug, reached down, and pulled out the box. Yes! It was finally in my hands.
The feeling of elation lasted only a few seconds, though, as the damn box was locked. Shit. I considered taking it home and picking the lock, but that could take hours, days even. What if I never got the box open?
Hitting it against something, like a tree, was always an option. It certainly didn’t appear all that sturdy as I checked it over. Hmm…
I looked around, glanced down at the shovel lying on the ground, and inspiration struck. A few whacks later and the lockbox—dented all to hell—popped open.
“Yes!” I squealed.
I picked the mangled mess of metal up and peered in. There was only one object inside—a dark wallet. Okay.
At first glance I thought the wallet was black, but when I scooped it up, I realized the leather material was actually dark brown. It was all the stains on the leather that made it appear darker. As I slowly comprehended what those stains were—dried blood—a bad, bad feeling came over me.
Cringing, and expected the worst, I opened the crusty wallet. There were a few credit cards inside, along with a driver’s license. All the identification bore one name: Ron Mifflin.
I swayed a little on my feet and blinked as I examined the cards. Most had expired long ago—like seven, eight, nine years ago. There were also a few twenties in the billfold…and a key.
I dropped back down to my knees; otherwise I would have passed out. The key was from Fowler’s Motel, not that it really surprised me. And the number on the head of it was number eleven.
R. Mifflin had checked into room number eleven in May, nine years ago. And there’d been no checkout date. But there had been a bullet lodged in the wall behind the bed. God. And here
