Chapter Text
10:45 PM, June 26. 30 Years Ago.
Park Row, Gotham City, New Jersey.
Thick, pale clouds hover over Gotham City in an endless blanket. They reflect the ever-shining lights of the city so the sky glows back a dulled, yellowed gray. Although it’s not currently raining, everything is wet—water drips rhythmically from tattered awnings; droplets slide down the glass windows of takeout-only pizzerias and laundromats; the concrete of the sidewalks, spotted with gum and pigeon poop, are darkened with the damp; and puddles are gathered at the edges of the asphalt roadway and in the potholes riddled across the street, near invisible except for the way they reflect the light from the storefronts, the streetlights, and the occasional passing car.
The street itself is empty, until three figures turn the corner from the intersection of Hollow Street, where the Monarch Theater stands – tall, old fashioned, and proud.
“…just a shortcut,” the man, tall and well-dressed in slacks and a long, dark coat despite the warm weather and humidity, grumbles. “Before it starts raining again.”
The woman with him laughs. She’s well-dressed as well – stockings and a knee-length black dress, hair curled and wearing dangling pearl earrings and a necklace. “We just watched a movie to give you so many ideas on what could go wrong in a dark alleyway, Thomas.”
Their teenager, loping alongside her with his hands stuffed in his pockets, nudges her with an elbow, grinning. “Dad would be the first character to die in a horror movie.”
“Sure, sure,” Thomas sighs, taking his wife’s hand. “We’ll go the long way if it makes you feel better, Martha.”
“A whole extra five minutes,” the teenager says. “And a little bit of damp. However will we cope.”
He immediately ducks away as Thomas tries to swat him at the back of the head. Martha laughs and pats Thomas’s arm, and the man subsides. “He’s been spending much too much time with Alfred,” he mutters.
The teenager grins, and opens his mouth
And Martha’s necklace explodes.
Freshwater pearls scatter to the asphalt as though the careful knots that should have held each little bead in place had never existed, bouncing and rolling across the sidewalk and into the street. They glint under the yellowed streetlights, against the inky asphalt, and the trio stand and stare, nonplussed.
“Martha,” Thomas begins, then gasps. His companions whip around to look at him just as he collapses.
“Thomas?”
“Dad!”
Thomas just stares up at them from the ground, eyes pained, confused, and then unseeing.
10:47 PM. June 26.
“Bruce,” Martha rasps. The teenager whirls to her as she drops to her knees, hands landing hard on the ground and curling into fists. Pearls roll against her fingers. “Go. Run.”
Bruce ignores her, dropping to his knees even as he swivels his head to look around them. There are doors opening along the street now, figures approaching from either end.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything okay, ma’am?”
“Kid!”
“Mom,” Bruce begs. He grabs at her shoulders as Martha struggles to look up at him. “Mom, what’s happening?”
“Bruce,” Martha tries again, one hand rising.
It falls back to the asphalt. Martha, dead weight, slips from Bruce’s hands and lands on the ground with a dull thud.
Bruce scrambles, trying to catch her after she’s already fallen, trying to pull her back up. His fingers send pearls rolling, brush against a cold metal coin. “Mom? Momma! Dad! Mom!”
“—richest folks in Gotham City—"
“No sign of a struggle—”
“Not a mark on—”
“—just dead.”
“—after all bystanders say he looked genuinely distressed.”
“—scuse my French, but what the fuck did you think he could have done?”
“—kid, name’s—"
“Master Bruce!”
Bruce Wayne sits at the back of an ambulance, voices washing over him, barely feeling the rain that has started up again to fall through his hair or the shock blanket resting over his shoulders. In one hand, his fingers clench tighter around a large silver coin.
The rain beats down on Gotham City. The sky glows.
Present Day
Seattle, Washington
The sky over Seattle is painted gray and the air is misted with rain. A dark blue Chevy Impala navigates a narrow street, lined with cozy, warm-toned two-story homes. A droplet falls against the windshield, and another. Soon enough, the street is drenched; the rain pouring in sheets.
Dick Grayson flicks the windshield wipers on and squints along the street, one hand on the wheel and the other adjusting a cell phone against his ear.
“Hold up a sec, Donna – it just started pouring, I can barely hear you.”
Donna’s response is nearly lost in the metallic thudding of fat droplets against the outside of the car and the music still drifting from the speakers. “Seattle, huh?”
Dick laughs. “Well, I’ve got just one last night before I can go see the sun again. I’m surprised it was werewolves and not a vampire tribe.”
“You’re sure you didn’t get scratched.”
“Don’t even worry about it, Donna. I’ve got experience with werewolf scratches.”
“That’s not something to be proud of,” Donna points out, half-amused and half-exasperated.
Dick grins, pulling into the driveway of a small brown and cream house. The red brick entrance to the driveway and the stairs next to it run with water. “If it makes you feel any better, I know how to make sure they don’t scar.”
“Lord,” Donna says, sourly, and Dick laughs. “Please don’t remind me of Roy and his macho man scars.”
Dick laughs and reaches over to the passenger side of the car, popping open the glove compartment, and feeling around for the garage door remote. “Seriously, though, Donna, I’m fine. The Birds safehouse is great. Proper bed, clean bathrooms, a full kitchen, not even a single cockroach.”
“None you’ve seen,” Donna challenges.
“None,” Dick insists as he pulls into the garage. “Babs hates roaches.”
“Got one over your last motel, then.”
“It was just one tiny thing.”
“The tiny things mean a whole damn swarm. I’d rather take one of the big ones.”
“Those fucking flying monstrosities are not one cockroach, Donna. Quality over quantity - I’d rather take the swarm.”
“Agree to continue to disagree, you wacko. I suppose all the rain is a small price to pay.”
“Don’t really mind it,” Dick admits, stepping out of the car.
“I know,” Donna says. “I’m glad you have Barbara.”
Dick pauses in the doorway to the house proper. “Me too,” he says, softly. “I’m glad for all of you.”
“I know,” Donna says again. Dick can hear her smiling. “Now go get your shower and all, I’ll call you later. Love you, Boy Wonder.”
“Love you too, Wondergirl,” Dick says, and waits for her to hang up.
He stretches, leaning as far back as he can (which is pretty far) before straightening and walking through the small living area. He flips on the radio sitting on the mantle and hums along to Justin Timberlake as he moves on to the kitchen. Leftover lasagna in the fridge – homemade! Thank you, past Dick – into the microwave. In the meantime, he heads to the bathroom, fully stocked with antibacterials and wound wash and gauze and suture materials – all the good stuff. He wasn’t lying to Donna – none of the scratches are from a werewolf, but he’s pretty banged up and bloody regardless.
Dick grew up in the nomadic lifestyle. As a kid, he’d been part of a travelling circus with his parents and – after – he and Bruce had been on the road pretty much as a standard those first few years, a nonstop road trip of saving people and hunting things. He doesn’t mind the stops and stays at crappy hotels and the occasional hostel, or crashing couches, or living out of the back of his beloved Impala. In fact, if he could get a shower in there – maybe a miniature trailer? –
That’s beside the point. The point being, that having an in with the Birds of Prey – and its homey, well-stocked safehouses— has its undeniable perks.
The lasagna is waiting for him, perfectly warmed, as he comes back into the kitchen, scratches wrapped and hair wet from his shower. He settles in at the coffee table, taking a bite as he begins tidying his research notes and scribbling down his personal report.
He wasn’t lying to Donna – he really had made it out of this case just fine, but he can’t deny it was a tough one. Werewolves are highly social, travelling in packs that always work well together. Taking on a pack solo is no mean feat – more a generally inadvisable one.
Generally. Regardless of what Donna thinks about his judgement on when to call in backup, Dick was confident in his ability to handle the pack, and he was proved right. Dick’s been at this since he was eight years old, in one way or another – even if the earliest years were spent in research and training with Bruce. He’s got plenty of years of solo work under his belt, too – he’s long learned to move without expecting another person watching his back, synching with his own moves. He knows the limits, and the extents, of his own skills.
Well. That’s what he’d tell Donna, anyways, or Bruce, or Tim. Dick took on a werewolf pack solo and won because he has to be able to do this, even alone.
The radio channel is in the middle of an ad break; some kind of tuberculosis PSA. It’s the only sound in the little house as Dick pads to the kitchen with his one dish and turns on the sink.
It doesn’t matter, anyways. The past is in the past, and decisions have already been made. No take-backs.
3:30 AM
Seattle, Washington
Dick’s eyes snap open.
The stairs up to the bedroom creak, just the wrong tenor for the house’s rhythm as it settles.
The Birds of Prey have a system. Dick, though not a member, has access to their safehouses thanks to Barbara, who is a meticulous record keeper. Dick’s presence at this safehouse for the past week, and the projected next three days, would have been noted. Any of the Birds are still welcome to its use – the actual members do hold priority over Dick, after all – but Barbara would have notified him first.
Dick rolls himself out of the bed, easing over to the door, not all the way closed, and gently pressing against it.
There’s no lights in the hall, but whatever faint nighttime moonlight filters through from downstairs illuminates the barest impression of a person. They take another step forward.
Dick moves.
He goes low, lunging and sending the figure toppling. A loud smack fills the room as their back hits the floor, one arm slapping the carpet while the other shoots out to grab Dick’s wrist where it pushes down on their chest.
Dick realizes three things in quick succession.
- This intruder is fun-sized.
- The intruder did not resist Dick’s tackle at all, only made sure to fall in a defensive position.
- The intruder is—
“I come in peace?”
“Tim?”
Tim grins up at him from the floor, big blue eyes and dark messy hair. Dick blinks back, the familiar face lying on now half-familiar striped rug unable to compute to his tired brain.
“Hi, Dick.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story,” Tim says. “Wanna let me up first?”
Dick considers him. Then drops his arm to lean heavily on the teenager, and jabs him in the side.
Tim yelps and smacks at him, trying to poke him back. Dick grins, dodging both the swipe and the jab, then hops to his feet and reaches down for Tim’s arm.
“This place does have a doorbell, you know,” Dick says, clasping Tim’s wrist to haul him up.
Tim huffs. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Dick rolls his eyes. Tim adds, “I nearly had you, admit it.”
Dick shakes his head fondly. “Heard you only halfway up the stairs,” he counters.
“Liar,” Tim says promptly.
“Your proof?”
Tim furrows his eyebrows. “Where’s yours?”
Dick ruffles his hair. “Caught you, didn’t I?” Tim makes a face. Dick decides to be generous and not call it a pout.
“I’ve got lasagna in the fridge,” he says, and starts downstairs. Tim trails behind him, not bothering to step quietly anymore.
“Homemade?” he asks eagerly, and Dick grins over his shoulder.
“Alfred’s recipe,” he agrees. Once again, he thanks past-Dick for his wonderful culinary timing, coincidental as it was. Dick can bet Tim hasn’t had anything homemade in months, probably not since the last time Dick had met up with him and Bruce at Alfred’s place.
Speaking of the man—
“Where’d you leave Bruce?” It’s not actually unusual for Tim to show up unannounced when Dick’s staying at a Birds safehouse, courtesy of one Barbara Gordon’s fondness for Dick’s younger brother and for springing surprises on Dick. Bruce might send the kid over sometimes, but he usually has to call Dick to find out where he’d be first.
Tim doesn’t answer for a moment. Dick pauses in reaching for the lasagna dish.
“Tim?” A thought hits him. “Did you sneak out?” If he did, that means Bruce must have set up shop nearby (unless Tim decided to sneak out and hop a bus, which. Dick will think about that if it comes to it.). Damn. A little heads up would’ve been nice.
But. “No,” Tim says. His voice is weirdly neutral.
“Okay?” Dick turns around. Tim is standing in the kitchen doorway, top lip sucked in and fiddling with one of the strap tails hanging from his backpack. “Tim? Where’s Bruce?”
Tim lets his lip slip out from his teeth, pursing his lips and squeezing the backpack straps in both hands. “Bruce went on a hunting trip,” he says in a rush. “Chicago Park, California. It was supposed to take him five days. It’s been three weeks.”
Some distant part of Dick is glad he hadn’t actually gotten the lasagna out yet; Babs would probably be annoyed about the broken casserole dish on principle, and cleaning a floorful of broken glass and sauce sounds like the last thing Dick wants to do now. The rest of him is firing fifteen questions at a time nonstop: If Bruce was on a hunting trip, where was Tim? He left you alone? Letting Tim hop a bus to show up at Dick’s was one thing – leaving him behind, alone, for a days-long hunting trip was another; Bruce should know better by now; what was he thinking? What the fuck was he looking for in Chicago Park anyways? Five days average or was Bruce being arrogance incarnate, as per usual? Three weeks? Tim’s been alone for three weeks? Bruce left him alone for three weeks?
“Barbara told you I was here?” is what comes out.
Tim nods. “Yeah.”
“You tell her about Bruce?”
Tim pulls a face again and hikes his shoulders up a little. “Sort of?”
“And you didn’t think to call me? Email at least?”
“…No?”
“Where were you even?” Dick realizes just as Tim opens his mouth that this is not going to go in any easy way. “Actually, wait. Sit down, I’m going to warm up something to eat and you’re going to start from the top.”
Five minutes later, Tim has a plate of lasagna, Dick has a cup of tea, and they are both seated across from each other at the kitchen bar. Dick sips at his tea, letting Tim wolf down a few bites of lasagna first, before he leans forward.
“Alright, kiddo. Spill.”
Tim comes up for air. “Right,” he says. “Okay. So. Bruce and I were stopped in Oregon.”
“Oregon?” Dick prods, and Tim nods.
“Manzanita.” Could have been worse, Dick thinks begrudgingly. “We had the place prepaid. Bruce got a lead, so he headed to Chicago Park—”
“A lead?” Dick interrupts, straightening. Tim blinks as the tea cup clatters against the counter. “Is this about the thing that killed his parents? He left you alone for that?”
“Well. No. It was just a normal case – people disappearing along a highway, old pattern, started happening more frequently…”
Dick grits his teeth and breathes in. “Okay,” he says. “So Bruce heard about a case in fucking Chicago, and took off on his own. Then?”
“Chicago Park,” Tim corrects. “It’s in California.” He lifts his chin and meets Dick’s eyes steadily. “The motel was prepaid, and in a good part of town. The case was only gonna take five days. I’m not some little kid, Dick.”
“You’re not supposed to be solo until you’re seventeen.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be doing field work until I was fourteen, either, but it just didn’t work out that way. Dick. The rules changed.”
Dick forces his jaws apart and stares into his mug for a minute. Tim eyes him, and Dick feels a pang of guilt. He’s not mad at Tim.
“Okay,” he says. “I guess that’s not the point right now, anyways. Keep going.”
Tim nods, and takes another bite. “I got a bit curious when it hit a week, but I wasn’t really thinking anything of it until it’d been ten days. I called him a few times and left an email, but no dice. Checked the news around Chicago Park, but there was nothing since the last death at the bridge, so I called Babs to ask if she’d heard anything. She said Bruce called her asking for info about something – some kind of artifact?”
“And then you told her you hadn’t heard from him in a week.”
“Ten days, and uh. I told her he was in Chicago Park. She mentioned you were up here, so I caught the bus.”
Barbara would have meant for Tim to call Dick. The fact she hadn’t done so herself—
“When was this, exactly?”
“Yesterday,” Tim says, focusing back on his plate. “Gave a few days for B to maybe answer, a few to keep an eye on the news before I called Babs. I was thinking of heading to Chicago Park when she mentioned you were here, and I thought, hey, I could be here in a day. And here I am.”
“Okay,” Dick says. He glances around the kitchen for his cell phone.
Tim only pays him half mind as Dick finds the right contact and hits call. He puts the phone on speaker.
“You have reached the voice mailbox of—” “Bruce.” “The number you have dialed has a voice mailbox that is full. Please call back another time.”
Tim raises an eyebrow.
Dick shrugs. “It’s like smacking the refrigerator. Always worth a shot.” He clasps his hands together in front of his mouth and watches Tim scrape the last of the sauce and cheese off his plate. “So Bruce was headed to Chicago Park. Ever got confirmation he got there?”
Tim shakes his head.
“And the case?”
“35 years worth of disappearances, all within a two-mile stretch of roadway, cars found in the middle of the road untouched.”
“Case files?”
Tim kicks the backpack on the floor next to him. “I helped with initial research. Got copies right here.”
Dick nods. “Awesome. It’s as good a place to start as any.” He reaches out to ruffle Tim’s hair again. The kid is tired – he leans into Dick’s hand. “There’s two bedrooms upstairs. Wash up and get a few z’s in while you can – we head out early.”
Tim grins up at him through his bangs, eyes shining, and Dick allows himself one more hair ruffle.
9:45 AM
I5, somewhere south of Tacoma, Washington
Dick swerves around a car slowing down to take an exit.
“You ever been to the Tacoma Narrows bridge?” Tim asks, mouth full of breakfast burrito.
Dick nudges his mouth closed. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not that old.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “The new bridge, not Galloping Gertie. I hear they’re building another bridge next to it too, like parallel spans. That’s gotta be cool.”
Dick smiles. “I did, go actually,” he admits. “That was last year though, I dragged Wally along and told him about the 40’s collapse. He was freaking out the whole time.” Tim laughs. “Someday when we’re not going to drag Bruce out of trouble we’ll go around.” He nods at the camera hanging around Tim’s neck. “Maybe they’ll be done with the bridge, I bet you’d get some real cool pics.”
Tim’s eyes shine, and Dick’s smile widens. “That’d be awesome.”
Dick focuses back on the road. “For now, though, let’s talk business. What are we walking into?”
Tim swallows the last of his burrito. Dick glares half-heartedly when he washes it down with Dick’s coffee. Tim ignores him, pulls a face, then shuffles paper deli bags and road maps around to reach his backpack.
“Chicago Park, Nevada County, California. Unincorporated community, residential and agricultural largely. Nearest downtown area is Colfax, about three miles down CA 174 and across the Bear River. About two months ago now, a Dodge Neon belonging to a Roger Crawford, age 43, Chicago Park native, was found in the northbound lane of Colfax Highway, about a half mile north of the Bear River Bridge. The car was empty – no signs of having hit anything, or of Crawford having been injured or forcefully removed from the car.”
“Body?”
“Never found it. There have been more disappearances in the past – six months ago, ten months ago, a year and a half, December 2002, February 2001, March 2000, November 1998, July 1993, May 1987, October 1980, June 1976. All within a two mile stretch of Colfax Highway.”
9:30 PM, Later that Day
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
A silver Chevy Silverado drives over Bear River Bridge. Inside, a man – early 20s, dressed in a nice button-down and khakis, hair gelled, is on the phone. ‘No, Amy, I won’t be able to make it over tonight. Why not? Because I got work tomorrow, that’s why not.’
“Missing persons were all male, but otherwise there’s no clear pattern – they were all different ages, couple of different ethnicities, different career paths even.”
4:30 PM
Drain, Oregon
Dick walks up to where the Impala is stopped at a gas pump. He tosses a wrapped burrito and two bags of chips through the open passenger window into Tim’s lap. The kid glances up from where he’s rifling through the collection of music in Dick’s glove compartment, mutters a thanks, and rips open one end of the burrito.
Dick heads over to the back of the Impala with his own burrito and leans against the car, minding the pump. Tim sticks his head out the passenger window, or more half-climbs out to look at Dick at the back. ‘Hey, Dick, I left a Clash album in here, didn’t I?’
‘Did you? I’m sorry to say Alfred sorted through my glove compartment when I drove him to the groceries last time, said it looked like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag except she could actually find what she was looking for.’
Tim stares at him, looking rather crestfallen. Dick snorts, reaches through the open window, and reemerges with a box of Kleenex. He pries the bottom flaps apart to reveal a jewel case. Tim looks at him, blank faced, and raises an eyebrow. Dick bursts out laughing.
‘Dick,’ says Tim.
‘Hey!’
9:32 PM
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
The man – or boy, however you’d like to define it – grips the steering wheel with one hand as he navigates a curve. His headlights barely illuminate the road in front of him. Well, just what do you want me to do about it, Amy? Quit? You’re gonna hafta get used to having less pretty gifts, then, you sure you want that? And the whole damn town finding out Amy Somers is a needy $%*&@, because everyone will sure as shit notice I’ve gone and quit.
“Most of them were from Chicago Park. There were a few from Shady Glen or Colfax, too, or just passing through, though, which throws off any pattern.”
9:30 PM
I5, somewhere near Castella, California
The lens of a camera sticks out a cracked window of the Impala.
‘There’s no way you’re gonna be able to capture anything,’ Dick says. ‘You’re wasting your film.’
Tim sticks his tongue out and goes back to fiddling with his camera.
‘Don’t drop it.’
‘Yes, Mom.’
9:35 PM
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
Fuck, okay, yeah, I’m sorry. But you gotta stop doing me like that, Amy. It’s not fair.
The headlights catch a flash of white. He squints through the windshield. Look, Amy, I gotta go. Bye.
There’s a woman standing by the side of the road. Long, white dress made of some gauzy, fluttery material, dark hair to her waist. Layers of fabric and hair alike flip around her in the breeze, sending dark strands against her pale face, skirt of the dress catching around her legs.
The car slows and pulls to the side of the road. Hey, you okay there?
The woman – girl? She is about the same age as the driver – just stares at him and shakes her head slowly.
Your car break down? Need a ride?
She nods. He reaches over to flick the lock on the passenger side door and she gets in.
My name’s Travis. What’s yours?
She tilts her head down, blinks slowly as she looks up at him through long lashes. Wouldn’t you like to know?
Uhm.
Take me home?
Travis blinks, and when his passenger tilts her head and leans in a little closer, says, Oh. Hell, yeah.
He shifts into drive.
“All different car types, models, brands.”
9:38 PM
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
The Silverado pulls up in front of a drive – if it can even be called that. There is a house set back about a hundred feet from the roadway, but it is crawling with ivy; the grass is overgrown with weeds; the drive is cracked and more plant than asphalt.
Uh, you sure this is the one?
The lady stares out the window at the house.
You pulling one over on me, lady? Nobody’s lived in this place for ages. What are you playing at?
I can never go home.
What?
She whips around towards him, dark eyes gleaming and lips pulled into something half-sultry smile, half snarl. Travis jerks back against his window as she lunges.
At a long-abandoned house along Colfax Highway, a scream pierces through the air. The Silverado stopped out front shudders, and begins backing up along the road.
10:30 PM
Red Bluff, California
A “Vacancy” sign flickers outside an Econo Lodge as the Impala pulls into a parking spot. Tim, in the passenger seat, stirs and lifts his head blearily. ‘We here?’
Dick leans in to ruffle his hair absently as he unclicks his seatbelt with his other hand. ‘Not quite.’ Tim hums questioningly, leaning towards him, and Dick cups his younger brother’s face with his hand. ‘I had a busy day yesterday, and an ill-advised tea and more excitement than ever necessary for 3 AM in the morning. I need a nap.’
Tim blinks at him, eyes going a little wider and mouth turning small. Dick shakes his head and strokes a thumb along Tim’s cheek. ‘I’m messing, kiddo. Though I do need that nap. Stay here, I’ll be right back.’
He pulls away and opens the car door. As Dick leaves, Tim pulls his knees up onto the seat and buries his face into them.
“The cars were found on the highway, middle of the northbound travel lane. Keys still in the ignition, no signs of any kind of collision or struggle.”
9:41 PM
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
The Silverado backs into the center of a bridge. The car settles. The headlights flick off. The night is still.
“The only other constant is that they never found a single body.”
8:30 AM
Colfax Highway, CA 174, Chicago Park, California
The sun rises over the historic Bear River Bridge. Pale pinks, purples, and blues ripple through Bear River, reflecting the sky. A silver Chevy Silverado sits atop the bridge, washed pale pink in the sunrise.
An otherwise photo-worthy scene is marred by flashing red and blue lights flickering over the truck; police cars with “Placer County” and “Nevada County” splashed across the sides are pulled in at haphazard-looking angles on either side of the bridge.
There’s a heavyset man in uniform leaning over the bridge railing. Another officer, taller and leaner, is at the truck, leaning through the open driver’s door. Dick ducks around the cars and saunters over, like this is where he is meant to be. Act like you belong and your job is half done, one of the first lessons in espionage Bruce had hammered into his head. He stops behind the truck, out of easy view of either man.
“Find anything?” the man at the railing hollers. Dick glances over the side. There’s two men in wetsuits standing by the riverbank.
“Nothing!” one of them hollers back.
The first man – Dick’s gonna call him Beaver until he gets a name – whirls around towards the truck. “Henry?” Well, Dick was gonna call him Toothpick, but Henry would do too.
“Nothing,” the man reports, standing straight to look over the hood of the car. “Keys still in the ignition. No fingerprints, no footprints, no blood. I’m almost surprised Travis’s are still in here.”
Beaver nods tightly. He turns back to the bridge. “What the fuck are y’all still standing there for, get a move on!”
Henry purses his lips.
“Sheriff, I know you want to be out here looking, what with it being your kid and all…”
“Nevada County’s fine with it,” Beaver says gruffly.
Henry nods. “I know, sir, but maybe it’d be best to take some distance? On a personal level. You said you spoke to Amy right, and she said she’d be putting posters downtown?”
The sheriff whirls around, face red. This could be either enlightening or a waste of time, but judging by the resigned look on Henry’s face, probably will turn out to be the latter. Time to step in.
Dick walks over from around the back of the truck. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Both men turn to look at him. Dick holds the congenial smile on his face.
The sheriff straightens, and tries to smooth out his face. He’s failing miserably. “Sir, this is an active crime scene. I’ll need to ask you to stay behind the police vehicles.”
Dick flicks the counterfeit badge at him in one quick, practiced movement – smooth enough to be casual, quick enough that they don’t get too good a look at it. “Federal marshal.”
“A little young for a marshal, aren’t you?”
Dick huffs a laugh, half-bashful, half-humoring, all I-have-heard-this-so-many-times-its-getting-old. “Well, thank you very much, Mr…?”
“Jeffries,” the man says, gruffly, holding out a hand. “Sheriff Marvin Jeffries.”
Dick takes his hand and shakes it, then tilts a head at the car. “Deputy Will Henry,” the man offers, tipping his head.
“I wish it were more a pleasure,” Dick says. “I couldn’t help but overhear you two earlier – I’m deeply sorry, Sheriff. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now.”
Jeffries grunts, then straightens.
Dick moves on. “What have you got so far?”
“Commuter from Chicago Park to Colfax reported the car, around 7:15 AM,” Deputy Henry steps in. “We got here just shortly after. Didn’t need to wait on a report for the car—” he nods to the Sheriff, “So I got started on analysis while Sheriff made some calls.”
“According to my wife, Travis was home at 9 PM last night when she turned in,” the Sheriff continues. His voice is gruff and reluctant. “She suggested his girlfriend—”
“Where he was under strict terms not meant to be,” Henry stage-whispers. Jeffries glares, but then sighs.
“Where he was not meant to be,” he admitted, “and so would’ve had to sneak in to. Sent a deputy over to town. Amy Somers – that’s the girlfriend – said she had asked him to come over. She’d rung the house 9:15 and got no answer, and then called his cell around 9:30.”
“Your wife was still home 9:15?” Dick interrupts.
“Aye. She’s a heavy sleeper.”
“Sleeping pills,” Henry interjects. Jeffries glares again.
“Anyhow. The kids had been on the phone a few minutes, she says she asked him to come over, he tells her he can’t. I assume they quarreled. She said he told her he had to go and hangs up. She assumes he was mad at her and left it at that.”
Dick hums. “Where’s Ms. Somers now?” she might be a good person to talk to, either to rule this entire shindig out as a supernatural one and therefore Not Their Problem (technically. More like not their area of expertise) or, as someone close to the victim, to sniff out any clues on a pattern.
“Downtown hanging missing posters. Girl went near hysterical – told her to give it an hour and she could start putting up posters. Keep her busy.”
Dick nods.
“Deputy Carter spoke to the other folks around town, too,” Henry says. He smiles at Dick. “Small town like this, everyone knows everyone. Her story lines up.”
“We know where she is if we need her,” Jeffries says. Henry clears his throat. “Carly Hayes who runs the bar did say she saw a pickup headed to the Town line around 9:30. High probability it was Travis. Marilyn – my wife – answered the door for the Deputy but she’d just woken. Couldn’t tell if Travis had even been home that night. Truck reported in 7:15, and here we are.”
“No prints in the truck, except Travis’s,” Henry says. “No mud, no blood. Key still in the ignition. Car looks recently cleaned, but no telling yet if that was just Travis’s work. No signs of a struggle – no scuffs or scratches, everything inside all neat and in order. Again, recently cleaned look. Checked for dents and scratches on the outside, any skid marks or tire tracks – nothing to suggest he came across something on the road. No questionable powders or scents. It’s almost too clean.”
Jeffries looks sidelong over the bridge railing. “No signs of anybody having been down by the river before us, either.”
“The victim?”
“Travis Jeffries. Just turned 22. He’s been working at the Fire Station. He was meant to be off the last two nights and had a shift today. Only kid. I can have Amy get you a poster.”
Dick walks around to the car and takes a peek in. As Henry said, it’s been meticulously cleaned. There’s a Little Tree hanging from the rearview; he’s willing to bet Travis had done the cleaning. Odd that the cops seemed so sure he hadn’t gone to pick up his girlfriend.
“You had another one like this two months ago, right?”
“Yep. Few before that, too.”
“Your running theory?”
The Sheriff’s jaw tightens, and the deputy shrug helplessly. “Serial killer? Kidnapping ring? There’s been a few cases over the past 30 years, but they’ve picked up frequency. We still haven’t closed out the case on Roger Crawford.”
“There’s been no notable pattern regarding the victims, except they were male,” Dick muses. “Small town, right? Any more personal trends you could think of?”
Henry shakes his head. “All different ages, jobs, hobbies, social circles. Bunch weren’t even from around here. The guy back in 1999 didn’t even hardly stop in town – just drove right through.”
Dick nods. “Thank you, sirs. We’ll be in touch.”
The Deputy dips his head. The Sheriff grunts. It’s half-dismissal and half reluctant acknowledgement, if Dick’s Grunt-meter is calibrated correctly. Seems the Sheriff is over his head and doesn’t like it.
Dick ducks around the parked cars and settles back into the Impala. Once he’s got about three miles down the road toward Colfax, he says, “You’re probably good now.”
Tim braces an arm on the passenger seat and crawls out from the footwell. “God, I nearly forgot why I hate when you guys work with the cops.”
Dick snorts.
Colfax, Placer County, California
Two girls – probably late teens, college-aged – stand by the flagpole outside the Colfax Public Library. One girl holds a stack of papers; the other tapes a poster to the wall.
“MISSING: TRAVIS JEFFRIES”.
Tim takes in a deep breathe. “Ýou got this,” he mutters to himself, hikes his backpack a little higher, and starts to cross the street.
“Excuse me!” he calls.
Both girls look over at him.
“And you are?” the girl who speaks adjusts her posters in her arms.
Tim grins, bashful. “Not from around here,” he admits. He sticks out a hand. “Jeff Russo. I just saw you guys and well—I’m so sorry. Do you need any help?”
Both girls exchange glances. The second girl holds out a hand. “Amy,” she says, “That’s Becca. And – we’d appreciate the help.”
By the time Amy is insisting on buying Tim lunch, Tim has learned:
- Amy and Travis are – were? Dating.
- Travis loved hunting and football, he had been homecoming king back when Amy and Becca had been high school freshman, he worked at the fire station under his best friend’s dad, who was the Fire Chief.
- Amy had been on the phone with Travis last night. He was meant to come to her place, because he’d been busy on errands out-of-town for most his two days off; he changed his mind because he had a shift the next day.
- The aforementioned best friend, when Amy had called him that morning, had told Amy that he hadn’t seen Travis and that he’d already spoken to the cops.
- Amy is confused, or pretending to be confused, on what Travis’s truck would have been doing out on the road. Becca pointed out that it was entirely plausible if one assumed he’d already been on the road while talking to Amy, or if he’d hit the road after.
- “He wouldn’t do that,” Amy said. Becca had opened her mouth, then set her jaw and started ripping tape with extra gusto.
- Amy had been woken up by a call from Placer County PD when Travis’s truck was first ID’d. She spoke to his dad, Sheriff Jeffries – he told her to wait an hour before she could start putting up posters, even though technically Travis wouldn’t actually be considered a Missing Persons case officially yet.
- Amy had called up Becca, waited the hour before she called up Sheriff Jeffries, put together the posters, and had Becca help her print the posters. They’d just gotten started putting them up when Tim showed.
All information that lines up with what Dick got from the Sheriff, which is good, but very little new (apart from the sense that the victim’s girlfriend’s best friend didn’t seem to like him very much) and little opportunity to try to get any information on whether Bruce had been here.
“So not only does your mom run the library, your cousin owns the only bookstore in town?” Amy nods. Tim laughs. “Sounds like a monopoly, to me.”
“You’re showing your city kid,” Becca grins.
“Yeah, I guess I am. It’s nothing like out here. I must’ve stuck out like such a sore thumb when I walked up.”
Becca laughs. “You got that right. We don’t get that many visitors out this way – we’ve only got like, the one motel. My girlfriend Janet works the desk most weeknights and she spends so much time doing homework she’s scrambling when someone actually shows up. Says she can count the actual visitors a year on one hand.”
Bingo. “Bet you can’t name every person to come through the last month,” Tim challenges.
“Ah, you question my memory? You’re on.” She holds a hand out in front of her and ticks her fingers down. “Family of five, man woman and three babies. Some dude who had to be in, like, his eighties – it was like watching a zombie drive a car. Cool car though. And a pair of college kids on a joyride from LA to San Fran who managed to get horribly lost. You have any doubts, I sweet talk our way into the motel and show off the guest book. And now there’s you.” She squints across the table of the booth at Tim. “You sure you’re old enough to be fricking hitchhiking to Sacramento? You don’t look old enough. Has your dad like, actually seen your face to be okay with it or is he the kinda guy who doesn’t even know you’re coming?”
“Becca,” Amy says, longsuffering. “Leave the poor guy alone and eat your fries.”
A waitress comes over with the rest of their order on a tray. “Two cheeseburgers, Oreo milkshake for Amy, and chocolate for Becca and your friend.” She smiles at Tim.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.”
Becca grins and leans over the table. “This here is our new friend Jeff. Jeff, Marcia.”
Tim smiles and nods. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Marcia smiles. “Enjoy your lunch.” And off she goes.
Amy’s smile grows smaller and wistful as she picks up her burger. “Travis loved this place.”
“Travis and his cheeseburgers,” Becca agreed, then quickly nods at Tim’s milkshake. “You a chocolate guy, kid?”
“Yup,” Tim says, watching as Amy tucks a cell phone back into her pocket and turns to face them again.
“Good,” says Becca. “You’re about to have the best damn milkshake in your life. You’re lucky the world brought you here. The fact some people go their entire lives not realizing what they’re missing is tragic.”
Tim takes a sip of the milkshake, then pulls away to stare down at it. It’s rick, creamy, and chocolatey without edging into a sugar smoothie. He’d thought Becca was overexaggerating – which she was a little, obviously, but it was good.
Becca laughs, and Amy smiles. “Told you so.”
“I think you’re right, Becca. I am blessed that the world deigned to dump me here for the day.” Tim takes another sip. “Anything else I should be making sure not to miss my entire life?”
Becca shrugs. “Nah, just the milkshakes. That’s our redeeming feature.”
Amy laughs, and Becca beams.
Tim winces a little internally. He might be about to drag them both back down. “How about the bridge?”
“The one over Bear River?” Amy asks. She doesn’t look perturbed, and Tim is starting to suspect the Sheriff hadn’t entirely filled her in on what they’d found.
Becca shrugs. “I never thought much of it, honestly. Gets you places.”
“It’s historical, isn’t it? The old bridge, obviously, the one on the trail. Not the one that carries traffic. 1920’s.”
“Obviously,” Becca echoes. “You pick all that off the plaque?”
Tim grins at her. “Mostly. I like bridges. Old ones are a bit tricky though – I don’t trust them not to be, like, haunted.” He wonders if he’s coming across as much like a bull in a china shop as he feels he is.
“Well, course they are,” Becca says.
Tim almost cheers.
“So it is?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Becca.”
Becca, undeterred, leans forward. “They say there was a girl who’d been trying to hitchhike on the Colfax Highway forty-five years ago.”
"You’re just saying this to scare me about the hitchhiking.”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, you oughtta be real careful, kid. But no, for real. Back me up here Amy.”
Amy sighs. “Yeah, it really is a story around here.”
“See! So this girl got murdered somewhere along the highway. Now she stands at the side of the road, and anyone who picks her up—” she pulls a finger across her throat.
Amy rolls her eyes and pulls a loud sip of milkshake through her straw. “I’m sure we’d have heard a lot more about a ghost if she was real, Becca.”
“Somehow I think she wouldn’t be a very good ghost if everyone was talking about her,” Becca counters, pointing at Amy with a fry. “Besides, maybe she’s a ghost that only picks up assholes.”
Amy slams her milkshake onto the table.
Becca and Tim stare up at her as she stands, hands clenched into fists. “Stop it! It’s always why did Travis do this, why did he do that, why are you still with Travis Amy, and he’s missing and I love him and you don’t even care, do you? He could be gone or hurt or-or-“ she chokes, tears streaming down her face.
Becca looks gutted. She drops the fry and reaches out. “Amy…”
Amy pulls away. “Some friend you are,” she snaps. “You hate Travis? I get it. I hate you.” She whirls around and marches out the door.
Tim watches after her a moment, then looks at Becca. Becca picks up another fry glumly.
Tim clears his throat a bit awkwardly. “You aren’t gonna. Um. You aren’t gonna go after her?” He kicks himself a bit – if Becca leaves and gets distracted by Amy, Tim’s lost both his potential sources. Which is an asshole way to think probably, so maybe his gut response was fine.
“I am,” Becca says hollowly. “I just need a minute. I need a minute, she needs a minute. Then I’ll go after her.” She sighs. “Damn, she deserves so much better than that asshat and here she is just…”
Well. If the opportunity presents itself… “I know I’m neither here nor there, but you’ve been real friendly and well. I’m not part of the town gossip mill so…”
Becca blinks at him, then barks a laugh. “Thanks, kid, you’re not so bad yourself. Don’t worry about it, it’s just – sometimes a girl goes head over heels for a guy, and he does her dirty, and no one wants to do anything about it because guys will be guys, right?” She shakes her head in disgust. “And the few people who care can’t do shit, because everybody knows fucking everybody and some of us have family and can’t afford to get on the goddamn sheriff’s bad side. I have little brothers; they get up to stupid shit sometimes. I can’t afford that, not even for Amy.”
Tim nods, sympathetic. “You sound like a good sister,” he says.
Becca laughs again. “Thanks, kid. You got siblings?”
“A few,” Tim offers. It’s probably unwise – the character he’s playing shouldn’t have siblings, probably, but for some reason even though he's been lying nonstop he feels like being honest with Becca just in this little way. Bruce would disapprove probably. “All older, though.”
“Ha. Tough luck, and lucky, kid. Hope they treat you well. You got a girlfriend?”
Tim shakes his head.
“Well, if you ever do, do yourself and her and the world a favor. You get a girl, she’s your girl, alright? Treat her right, and treat her right.”
Tim nods, slowly. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
“You do,” Becca says. “Well, I better go drag Amy out of whatever hole she’s burrowed into.” She reaches for her wallet; Tim take that as his queue to reach for his own. “I got you, kid. Thanks for listening.”
“You sure?” Tim asks, to be polite, and Becca waves him off as she stands. Tim trails her to the door.
“It was lovely to meet you,” he says once the door’s swung behind them.
Becca smiles at him. “You too, Jeff.” She hesitates for a second. “You want to, like, come with? Or I could walk you to the motel, or like—I don’t know. My mom.”
“That’s fine,” Tim says. “But I’ll be okay. I’ve made it this far, after all—” he grins at her. “I can take care of myself.”
Becca snorts. “Sure hope so. Well, If I don’t see you again, kid, safe travels.”
“Thanks,” says Tim. “And thanks again for, you know – everything.” Becca starts off down the street, and Tim starts to go the other way—when something occurs to him. “Hey Becca!”
She turns around to look at him over her shoulder, framed in the corner of the intersection by faded asphalt road and an ice cream shop, clearly interrupted from her destination. Some distant part of Tim itches for his camera, tucked safely into his backpack.
“You’re a good friend, too.”
Becca blinks at him, and then she smiles. It’s small. “Thanks, kid,” she says.
Tim waves one last time, then turns and starts down the street towards the motel.
Colfax Public Library, Colfax, California
Colfax Highway Hitchiker Murder 1950s
“Sure hope no one checks the history on these things,” Dick says, leaning his elbows on the back of the cheap computer chair. Tim just hums and backspaces.
Bear River Hitchiker died
“Watch it turn out to be a serial killer after all,” Tim mutters irritably. Dick chokes on his laugh and immediately feels just a tinge guilty. Only a tinge.
Colfax highway deaths
“That’s just everything we’re already investigating right now,” Dick says, leaning over Tim’s shoulder and skimming the long list of results.
“Maybe she wasn’t actually a hitchhiker?” Tim taps the keyboard again. “Could’ve slid into a cautionary tale.”
Colfax Highway murder 1950s
“Still nothing before our first guy in the 70s.”
“Vengeful spirits. Alright, first contender after murder?”
“Sure hope no one’s paying too much attention here,” Dick mutters. Tim winces a little.
“Well, Amy’s mom does run the library, so I hope not.”
“Nice to know,” Dick mutters, and crosses his arms over the chair. “Suicide?”
Colfax highway suicide
“We’ve got a winner.”
THE COLFAX TRIBUNE
CHICAGO PARK WOMAN’S DEATH RULED SUICIDE
A local woman’s death by drowning was ruled a suicide, said the county Sheriff’s Department earlier today.
Chastity Warner, 23, of 16965 Durango Lane in Chicago Park, leapt from Bear River Bridge and subsequently drowned two nights prior.
Deputy Martin Jeffries told reporters that Ms. Warner had logged a 911 call an hour prior to her estimated time of death. Ms. Warner had reported finding her two young children, Marissa Warner, 5, and Thomas Warner, 3, in the bathtub after she had left them alone for several minutes while in the kitchen. Deputy Jeffries describes Ms. Warner as having been “frantic, near hysterical”.
“What happened to Mary and Tommy was a terrible accident,” said husband Joseph Warner, 27. “And it must have been too much for my wife. Our babies slipped away while she was in the other room, and it was too much for her. It was a series of terrible incidents. I ask that you all respect my privacy during this time.”
As the tragic events of the night unfolded, Mr. Warner had been working the night shift at the **** Service Station, where County PD had met him for questioning and to report the passing of his wife and children.
“She was just the sweetest girl,” says Martha Bayer, who runs the Colfax Diner. “Quiet, but she loved those children and was always so good to Joe every time they were in town. I can’t imagine the heartbreak she must have gone through that night, let alone how Joe must feel.”
“Bear River Bridge,” Dick says. He claps Tim’s shoulder and straightens. “Come on, let’s go.”
Tim clears the history and logs out of the computer. “You really think we’ll find anything?”
Dick shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Bear River Bridge, Nevada/Placer County, California
“Dead out here,” Tim notes as Dick pulls in as close to the edge of the road as he can.
“Small town,” Dick echoes, hitting his flashers and getting out. Tim scrambles over the console to get out from the driver’s side as well.
Dick leans over the railing. “Did they ever mention which bridge she jumped from?”
Tim joins him. “No,” he admits. “Not in the article we looked at, anyways, but nothing newer would connect this to the disappearances.”
Dick nods. “Well, we’re already here, so let’s do this backwards. Comb our way down the bridge, look for any relics of one Mrs. Chastity Warner.”
He starts moving down the edge of the bridge. Tim follows behind him; better take your time and have two fresh pairs of eyes than split up and risk missing something. Tim’s learned well; Dick’s awfully, guiltily proud.
“There hasn’t been any sign of Bruce around here,” Tim says, almost out of nowhere. Dick wonders if the kid’s been thinking about it all this time. Dick’s certainly been trying not to, all day.
After all, Bruce is probably fine, wherever he is. Bruce is capable and smart and methodical and paranoid. Hard to trap.
And an emotionally constipated jerk who can’t tell when he ought to let his kids know he’s going radio silent a few days, just sometimes.
Bruce is probably fine.
“I did call the hospitals around here,” Dick says. “And, uh, the morgues. No one matching Bruce, thankfully. Checked the guest ledger at the motel too—none of Bruce’s usual aliases.”
“Mm-hmm. So either he disappeared without a trace, or he’s not here.”
“Well, it wasn’t whatever’s the deal over here, at least. No car, and I’d recognize Bruce’s anywhere.”
“Who was on the guest list for the last month, anyways?” Tim asks.
“Family of five, a French guy, a pair of guys who got a room together. None of them very Bruce.”
Tim laughs. “Man and woman with three babies, old dude with a fancy car, and a pair of lost college kids. Sounds like Becca might’ve been spot-on.”
Dick looks over his shoulder at the kid, amused – he seems to have liked this Becca girl – when something white flutters at the center of the bridge. The smile dies on his face. A young woman, probably Dick’s own age or even younger, stares straight at him with dark, blank eyes. She’s wearing a gauzy white dress that flutters everywhere, obscuring her figure even as it catches against her body. Long, dark hair, loose to her waist, flutters between the folds of fabric.
He recognizes her from the newspaper. Chastity Warner.
“Tim,” Dick says, warning, and the kid immediately shuffles the barest bit closer to Dick, turning slowly. Dick hears his breath catch.
Still holding eye contact with Dick, Chastity steps onto the railing of the bridge, and steps into air.
Dick jerks forward on instinct, bumps into Tim, and comes back to his sense, grabbing the kid’s shoulders and pulling back. Tim leans over the side of the bridge to look down, and Dick presses against his back to see as well.
No sign of anyone down there.
“Well,” Dick says. “I guess that answers which bridge.”
The Impala revs. Dick feels his heart stop for the third time.
“Did you leave the keys in?” Tim asks, incredulous. Dick stares as the headlights of his beloved car – his second (first?) home, his beloved companion – switch on and can’t even force words up to his throat. He reaches into his pocket instead, and jangles his keys at Tim.
Tim’s eyes widen.
The car accelerates.
“Shit!”
Tim reaches for the railing first. Dick grabs him around the waist, and hurls them both off the side.
For a few moments, they are flying-falling. The air whips, frigid with river water, past Dick’s ears. Dick is an expert at falling, has been since he was barely a toddler, and with Tim clutched in his arms falling is the most terrifying thing Dick has ever, and will ever, experience ever again.
Then his back hits the water, and all he can think is cold and wet and don’t breathe and Tim.
“I could’ve made the jump, y’know,” Tim murmurs.
The kid is wrapped up in the emergency blanket from Dick’s car. It’s spotted with damp patches, and his wet hair is starting to curl lightly at the ends. He presses his shoulder against Dick’s arm where they’re standing in front of the open hood of the Impala, and all it feels is cold and wet.
Dick shivers as a breeze shudders past. It’s nighttime, dark and cool, and it was not summer enough for a swim yet.
He slams the hood shut. The car is fine, and so are they.
“Well, at least we know it’s probably not a serial killer.”
Tim tries to stop his snort halfway through and ends up making a horrendous noise. Dick looks at him with the judgiest look he can muster. Tim sticks his tongue out at him.
Dick starts around to the drivers seat. “C’mon, we’re cranking the heat all the way up.”
"It’s not even that bad,” Tim says. “You sure we’re good? If we end up getting driven off to God-knows-where by your sentient car I’m blaming you.”
Dick smacks the back of his head. “Shut up, Boy Basketcase.”
Dick steps out of the shower, scrunching his hair dry with an old t-shirt, to find Tim sitting on the queen bed in the center of the room with a pile of research journals spread out around him.
He plops down heavily on the side of the bed, just to see Tim glare when his pile of journals is jostled. “Whatcha got, kid?”
“Something’s been nagging at me, since we saw Chastity Warner on the bridge. That, and something Becca said.”
“Which was?”
“’Maybe she’s a ghost who only picks up assholes.’”
Dick straightens. “She was talking about Travis, presumably? What makes Travis an asshole?”
“Well, she didn’t say it outright, but she suggested he, um, did Amy dirty. Guys will be guys, treat your girlfriend right…”
“She implied he’d cheated,” Dick says, starting to see where this was going. “The car was all tidied up – I’d thought it was odd the cops were so sure he hadn’t been to see his girlfriend. He really hadn’t. But he’d been going to see someone else.”
“And when we saw Chastity Warner tonight, it got me thinking.”
“A Woman in White,” Dick says. Tim nods sharply. “It would fit – the kids, the dress, Travis.”
“Apparently Becca wasn’t the only one who knew Travis had been up to something, but she was annoyed no one else would admit it or do anything about it.”
“So they’re enablers or prudes or both. Helps explain why no one’s found a pattern in the victims yet.” Something no one could see, and no one was willing to say. Which made it near indetectable when you waltzed into the case short notice.
Tim stops flipping through a journal and presses his fingers against it. “If she is a Woman in White—doing standard procedure is going to be tough. Her business is not quite, well, unfinished, and we can’t, what, prove to the world that her husband cheated on her..”
“Might have to skip straight from the good to the ugly,” Dick says.
“The body,” Tim says. He shuts the book in his hands and stares down at it. “Find a weakness, use it to destroy her.”
“Yeah,” Dick says, softly. He doesn’t like this anymore than Tim, but this is their responsibility, what they do. No one else will be able to figure out and stop people from mysteriously disappearing off a bridge. And regardless how crappy a human being they were, they can’t justify leaving generations of yet-unknown people to be disappeared, for the people who loved them getting caught in the blast zone and waiting for their loved ones to come home, never even knowing what they’d done and why they’d disappeared.
If that means desecrating a corpse rather than helping a spirit gently move on, so be it.
“I’ll go question the husband tomorrow morning,” Dick says, “then we’ll pack up and head out.” Tim nods, sending his bangs falling over his eyes. Dick brushes them away. Tim’s hair is still damp from the shower. “Now I don’t know about you, but I’m pooped. Clear up and let’s get some shut-eye, yeah?”
6:45 AM
Colfax Motel, Colfax, California
Dick wakes up with his knees scrunched up towards his chest and something wrapped around one ankle. He knows what he’s going to find when he glances at the foot of the bed and – yep, there’s Tim, stretched out horizontally with a blanket tangled around his knees and one arm reaching under the blanket. Presumably connected to the hand around Dick’s ankle.
Dick’s gotten used to waking up to find Tim in all kinds of random positions—at least in more recent years. Back when they were all small enough to fit three of them in a bed, little Timmy would sleep curled into a tight ball between Dick and Jason, and he’d still be there, settled contentedly in Dick’s arms, when they woke up.
By the time Cass had joined them, Dick was almost fifteen and hitting growth spurts faster than anyone could keep track of, and Jason, nearly a teenager, was just starting to catch up. Dick had started spending more and more nights on a couch or curled into a chair or some other form of makeshift bed.
Of course, those nights he and Bruce had a hunt, one of the others would try to beat him to to the couch or bully him back into the bed. Tim never succeeded, of course; Jason and Cass usually pulled it off, especially if they teamed up on him.
Which they always did. God, Jason and Cass could fight like cats and dogs some days, but they’d team up to bully Dick into letting them look after him, because of course.
(Except for on the really bad nights. Sometimes, it didn’t take any bullying to get all four of them into the bed. Sometimes it took extra to get Dick to leave the bathroom, let alone slip into bed with the rest of them.)
Dick wishes he knew where Cass was.
God, he misses Jason.
Tim shifts, at the end of the bed, and tightens his grip on Dick’s ankle.
Dick breathes.
Then kicks out his foot. “Up, sleepyhead.”
“Mmmmm?”
“I gotta use the bathroom. Up.”
12:00 PM
Colfax, California
“…the hell kind of story you’re working on anyways.”
Dick smiles sympathetically as he follows the older man up the driveway.
Joseph Warner. Age 57, manager at the Colfax gas station, Charity Warner’s widower.
“It’s an awareness piece on mental health,” Dick says. “We want to fight stigmas, you know, celebrate the lives lost too soon, acknowledge their pains, mourn without whispers—well.” He stops, rubs the back of his head sheepishly. Warner is watching him with an amused look to his face. “Thanks for speaking with me, anyways.” He hesitates a second. “Mr. Warner—if you don’t mind me asking, where was Chastity buried? I’d like to pay my respects.”
Warner eyes him, but he answers. “Back of our old house up in Chicago Park. 16965 Durango, but I’m betting you knew the address already.”
Dick shrugs apologetically. “Guess there’s a reason you don’t live at the old place anymore.”
Warner shrugs. “I’m not really interested in the house where my children died.”
Thanks, Mr. Warner.” He gets a nod in response. Dick turns to walk away, but he can’t quite bring himself to start back towards the packed-up Impala where Tim is waiting a few blocks away (gotta be packed up and ready for a quick getaway when you’re planning on burning a body.)
They won’t be able to bring Chastity Warner peace. They’re going to go desecrate her grave and her body instead.
“Did you ever remarry, Mr. Warner?”
“No. Chastity was the love of my life. Sweetest girl I’d met then and since.”
Dick turns to look at him. “So you guys’ marriage, it was a happy one?”
Warner stared at him for a moment. The corner of his lip dipped for just a moment. “Definitely.”
“You ever hear of a woman in white, Mr. Warner?”
“A what?”
“A woman in white. A weeping woman. They’re, well. A ghost story, I suppose.” Dick sticks his hands in his pockets, shifts on his feet. “A kind of spirit. People have been seeing them for hundreds of years, all over. The spirits of all these different women. All these different countries, different ages, from different walks of lives.”
“I’ve never put much stock in spirit nonsense,” Warner says, and turns around. “You shouldn’t either, boy.”
Dick continues, undeterred, as though he’d said nothing. “See, on the outside, you wouldn’t really see the pattern. But they all had one thing in common. Their partners were unfaithful.”
Warner stops by the door.
“And all these women, in a fit of grief, or anger, or insanity, or even just plain distraction, they drowned their kids.”
“What the hell are you getting at, boy?”
“And once they realized what had happened, what they’d done, they took their own lives. And now their spirits haunt roadways and alleys and waterways, travelled ways, and when they’re passed by an unfaithful man, they take him. And he’s never seen again.”
“Are you saying,” Warner says, voice shaking. “That those disappearances – those deaths – are you trying to say they have something to do with Chastity?”
Dick says nothing. He waits.
Warner whirls around. “You – you asshole!”
“Did that sound familiar, Mr. Warner?”
“I—” Warner pauses. He pulls a hand over his face, and doesn’t take it away. “I may have made some mistakes. But Chastity – no matter what I did, no matter what she was feeling, she would’ve never killed our kids. It’s – what I did, it wouldn’t have made her—” He chokes on the words, and he stands there, hand still covering half his face, shoulders shaking. “Get the hell out of here,” he says. “Get the hell out, and—and don’t dare ever come back. And you can forget about – about using Chastity for whatever sick game you’re playing.” With that, he turns away and walks into the house.
Dick watches the door for a moment, jaw clenched. Then he turns and heads down the drive.
Time to get to work.
11:15 PM
Chicago Park, California
The Impala slowly pulled into the shoulder of the roadway. “Close enough?” Dick says.
“Close enough,” Tim agrees. “Now here’s to hoping we get in and out before someone assumes we’re Chastity Warner’s next victim.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Dick grumbles.
Tim rolls his eyes and pops open the passenger door. “Got everything in the trunk?”
“Yep.” He reaches for his own door, when his phone beeps from the cupholder where he’d dumped it. He reaches for it and flips it open.
No new texts.
“What the—” he looks up, and straight into a pair of dark, empty eyes set in a pale face.
Dick yanks at the driver door.
It doesn’t budge.
The locks click. Chastity Warner stares straight into Dick’s eyes. “Take me home?”
Dick curses and reaches for the gear stick with one hand even as he yanks at the door with another. The trunk slams, shaking the whole car. Tim. Dick’s hand closes around the gear; he doesn’t even know what he plans to do – and he doesn’t get to decide. The car revs and starts forward.
“What the fuck,” Dick yells.
“Dick!” That’s Tim, outside. The Impala picks up speed. Dick tries to slam the brakes, yanks at the wheel – both stay firmly locked in place.
“What do you want,” Dick says. Chastity is staring out her window.
“Take me home,” she says.
“Why,” Dick says, stupidly, then “No, just. No. Stop it.”
The car stops jerkily in front of an overgrown drive. The house is just barely visible at the end.
Chastity stares at it. Longing? Haunted? “I can never go home,” she says, doleful. Then she turns, and looks Dick right in the eyes again.
“You can’t kill me,” he breathes. “I’ve never been unfaithful. Rules are the rules.”
“Haven’t you,” she asks, leaning in. “My love?”
Dick feels ice drip down his spine and he can’t stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining golden skin and green eyes, a mass of frizzy curls, orange melding into warm brown at the roots, and a smile that made his heart flutter. Kory. Miriam. The mirage.
“That’s not fair,” he croaks.
“Your actions were your own,” she says. “Were they not? The rules are the rules.”
“I didn’t fucking know,” Dick says. He wouldn’t have if he’d known. Why the fuck didn’t he know? He told her yes. His actions…
“You didn’t regret it,” Chastity coaxes.
“Didn’t regret it?” Dick snarls. Dick’s regretted that night every moment of the few years since. Regretted that he hadn’t been paying attention, that he hadn’t noticed, that he said yes—
Chastity snarls back and lunges, lips peeled back and dark hair whipping unnaturally around her face as long-nailed fingers reach towards his face. Dick jerks back against the window, instinctively gripping the steering wheel tighter even knowing it’s fricking useless—
A gunshot shatters the air.
Chastity flickers and screeches. Her hair, long and stringy and damp slaps against Dick’s face as she whips around.
Behind her, outside the still-open passenger window of the Impala. Tim, gun still held up.
Chastity snarls. Tim fires again.
Tim.
Flutters of white fabric, an ugly snarl, Tim, face set, shooting again and again. The ghost, unbalanced still, strands of wet hair dripping on Dick’s seats. Damp. Drowned.
She can’t go home.
Dick slams his foot on the accelerator.
Chastity screeches as they crash through the old house. The door and the edge of the wall against it give way, and the Impala careens into a cobwebbed living room, and she barely has time to focus back on Dick and the Impala when he slams on the brakes and they screech to a stop. Dick jerks against the seatbelt. Chastity’s forehead slams against the console.
“No,” she gasps. “I can’t—I can’t be—I can’t go home—”
She disappears.
The drivers side of the Impala is up against sheetrock and wooden supports. Dick scrambles for the release on his seatbelt. Then there’s Tim, at the passenger’s window, framed by the moonlight through the gaps in the windows, the hole in the wall.
“Dick,” he says.
“Timmy,” says Dick.
“Are you okay. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Dick says, and scrambles over the console to grab Tim’s hand and stagger out of the car. “Where’s—”
Tim gestures.
Chastity stands at a dusty mantle place. She reaches out towards a framed picture of two grinning toddlers, and gently runs her fingers against the edge.
The lights flicker on, then off. Chastity tenses. Something drips.
All three of them whip around. The drip turns to a trickle, a stream of water tumbling down the stairs. Chastity slowly picks her way through dusty furniture and toppled trinkets. Dick wraps his arm more tightly around Tim’s shoulder, and they press back against the car.
The trickle slips into a stream turns into a gush of water. Chastity freezes at the bottom.
“Mommy.” A little boy’s voice floats down the stairs.
“You came home!” says a little girl.
Chastity shakes her head. “No,” she says. She whips around. A pair of small children – a little boy, a girl just slightly taller, holding hands – flicker into existence. Small arms reach around Chastity’s legs.
Chastity screams. The water down the stair turns to a deluge, crashing against walls and old furniture, freezing cold where it splashes against Dick’s shoes and soaks his socks and sneakers, weighing Chastity’s gauzy dress down as it whips in the wind and the lights flicker and the water sprays around the three figures and they melt into the rapids, and the water recedes, back towards the stairs, until all that’s left is the memory of damp and the must of old, abandoned, moldy house.
“This is it,” Tim says, breaking the hush that had fallen over the house. “This is where she drowned her kids – in the house. She couldn’t come back because she couldn’t face them. She was afraid to.”
Dick just nods.
“You found her weakness,” Tim says.
“Sure thing, Timmy,” Dick says. He ruffles Tim’s hair, then lets him go. “C’mon, time to dip.” He opens the passenger door and reaches for the gear stick.
“What about the body?” Tim asks, hovering behind him. Dick pauses and glances out at the house.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” he says. It feels wrong, now. “She’s moved on. Best to leave her in peace, or…whatever it is she’s got next.”
Tim nods. Dick shifts the car into neutral. “Alright, help me out.”
The Impala is…mostly…still in one piece when they’ve pushed it back out onto the road. The scratches won’t be the first set of battle scars the Impala has suffered in the adventures its shared with Dick, and he’s got enough duct tape in the back to get the rearview mirror back to a reasonable angle that hopefully won’t get them pulled over.
Dick climbs in. Tim slams the passenger door shut.
“Let’s get the heck out of here,” Dick says.
“Let’s,” says Tim. “Also—Dick.” Dick glances at him. He’s got his upper lipped pulled in between his teeth. He glances at Dick, and quickly looks away again when he sees Dick looking. Dick turns back to the road as the kid lifts his jaw and turns all the way to face Dick. “You know she was reaching, right? She was just looking for a loophole to get you out of the way.”
Dick breathes in from his nose, holds it. Smiles, and ruffles Tim’s hair without taking his eyes off the road.
“Thanks for the save, Timmy,” he says. Tim eyes him but lets it go.
The wind ruffles through the open windows, sending Tim’s hair ruffling across his face. Dick feels the edges of his own brush his cheeks. He reaches for the console and cranks the radio volume up a bit. The Scientist floats through the car, out the windows, into the woods where birds are just starting to chirp a melody all their own.
“So,” Dick says. “Bruce definitely never made it to Chicago Park.”
“Definitely,” Tim agrees. “And Chastity was anchored by her children and her house – nothing to do with any artifact.”
Dick glances at him. “Artifact?”
Tim nods like it’s obvious, then tilts his head, suddenly remembering Dick does not absorb memories by osmosis, Tim. “Yeah, that’s what he called Babs about, just after leaving Manzanita.”
“Well,” Dick says, reaching across Tim’s lap to drop open the glove compartment. The pocket atlas and maps are right where they always are; he tosses a stack onto Tim’s knees. “Lay in a course for Chicago, Boy Wonder. Illinois this time.”
Tim grins at him. “Make it so.”
Dick cranks the music up higher. The sky is tinged in dusty blue and pale peach as he merges onto I-80, Tim absentmindedly talking out loud as he plots their course for the next few days.
Sunrise at their back, Dick hits the gas.