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Authors: Archer Mayor
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sloshing underfoot.
It was there, at a Y-shaped juncture — with one shaft leading upstairs — that Lester made their second and final discovery. A single bare left footprint was clearly stamped in drying mud, matching the slipper in size, two steps above the high-water mark. Then, nothing.
"Didn't Robinson Crusoe find something like this?" Lester asked, readying his camera. They worked together to light their finding properly, placing a ruler beside it as reference, before straightening and looking up the steps, as if anticipating the appearance of a celebrity.
"Where's that lead to?" Joe asked.
"Out," Teater said simply. "That's the bad news, I'm afraid. Above us is one of the least occupied and most open buildings in the whole complex. Anyone can just come and go."
They headed up, their eyes on the treads before them, hoping to catch another telltale sign, but Teater's implication was well taken. Assuming that Barber's feet had dried quickly upon leaving the water, and that she'd met no opposition from either locked door or human being, there remained nothing to pursue. When the four of them stepped into the fresh air, outside a door a few feet from the staircase's apex, they found themselves in a huge, flat expanse — not far from Main Street — with unlimited access in any direction.
Kevin Teater removed his helmet and peeled off his mask before radioing their location to the command truck. He then rubbed his face with his open palm and raised his eyebrows at Joe. "What d'ya think?" he asked.
"I think it would be a stretch to say that footprint didn't belong to Carolyn Barber," Joe answered indirectly.
"Which brings us," Lester suggested, "from Robinson Crusoe to Cinderella."
"Or the Hunting of the Snark," Teater suggested.
His three companions each gave him a blank look.
Willy Kunkle killed the engine and observed his home, located defensively at the top of a horseshoe-shaped street in West Brattleboro. His neighborhood hadn't suffered from the flooding, being situated on a slope above the otherwise devastated Whetstone Brook valley. There had been at most a damp cellar on the block or an old tree toppled because of overly saturated soil. But Willy's house had suffered nothing, in part because of his own preparedness.
And not in advance of just this storm. It wasn't Willy's style to yield to a single threat. To him, there was nothing but peril all around — and all the time — which was why his house had been chosen for its strategic location, why his property's trees and shrubs allowed for clear sight lines down both streets, why he had two sump pumps in the basement and a backup generator, and why his locks and doors and windows were all high security-rated.
The coming of Irene had been no more for Willy Kunkle than a confirmation of his everyday fears, and his survival of her passing mere proof that you can never be too cautious or too prepared.
But it wasn't the condition of the house that he was contemplating. His thoughts were on its occupants, as Sam had left the office early to relieve Louise from her babysitting.
Sam had been steady from the start of their union, seeing beyond his paranoia to identify the love he held for her and now their daughter. For him, predictably, that had only added to his worries. Sam gave so much with her forbearance, her patience, and her generosity. When was that going to run out? When was she, like everyone else in his life — including him — going to realize that he was a lost cause?
Willy watched his large right hand, resting on the bottom of the steering wheel — powerful, capable, a veritable weapon to so many who'd suffered from its strength. But what did it represent? A surrogate for its useless left companion perpetually stuffed into his pants pocket; a reminder that he was a cripple in fact and in function. The arm had been destroyed by a bullet years ago, taken in the line of duty, and despite the handicap, Willy — with Joe's urging and to
It was there, at a Y-shaped juncture — with one shaft leading upstairs — that Lester made their second and final discovery. A single bare left footprint was clearly stamped in drying mud, matching the slipper in size, two steps above the high-water mark. Then, nothing.
"Didn't Robinson Crusoe find something like this?" Lester asked, readying his camera. They worked together to light their finding properly, placing a ruler beside it as reference, before straightening and looking up the steps, as if anticipating the appearance of a celebrity.
"Where's that lead to?" Joe asked.
"Out," Teater said simply. "That's the bad news, I'm afraid. Above us is one of the least occupied and most open buildings in the whole complex. Anyone can just come and go."
They headed up, their eyes on the treads before them, hoping to catch another telltale sign, but Teater's implication was well taken. Assuming that Barber's feet had dried quickly upon leaving the water, and that she'd met no opposition from either locked door or human being, there remained nothing to pursue. When the four of them stepped into the fresh air, outside a door a few feet from the staircase's apex, they found themselves in a huge, flat expanse — not far from Main Street — with unlimited access in any direction.
Kevin Teater removed his helmet and peeled off his mask before radioing their location to the command truck. He then rubbed his face with his open palm and raised his eyebrows at Joe. "What d'ya think?" he asked.
"I think it would be a stretch to say that footprint didn't belong to Carolyn Barber," Joe answered indirectly.
"Which brings us," Lester suggested, "from Robinson Crusoe to Cinderella."
"Or the Hunting of the Snark," Teater suggested.
His three companions each gave him a blank look.
Willy Kunkle killed the engine and observed his home, located defensively at the top of a horseshoe-shaped street in West Brattleboro. His neighborhood hadn't suffered from the flooding, being situated on a slope above the otherwise devastated Whetstone Brook valley. There had been at most a damp cellar on the block or an old tree toppled because of overly saturated soil. But Willy's house had suffered nothing, in part because of his own preparedness.
And not in advance of just this storm. It wasn't Willy's style to yield to a single threat. To him, there was nothing but peril all around — and all the time — which was why his house had been chosen for its strategic location, why his property's trees and shrubs allowed for clear sight lines down both streets, why he had two sump pumps in the basement and a backup generator, and why his locks and doors and windows were all high security-rated.
The coming of Irene had been no more for Willy Kunkle than a confirmation of his everyday fears, and his survival of her passing mere proof that you can never be too cautious or too prepared.
But it wasn't the condition of the house that he was contemplating. His thoughts were on its occupants, as Sam had left the office early to relieve Louise from her babysitting.
Sam had been steady from the start of their union, seeing beyond his paranoia to identify the love he held for her and now their daughter. For him, predictably, that had only added to his worries. Sam gave so much with her forbearance, her patience, and her generosity. When was that going to run out? When was she, like everyone else in his life — including him — going to realize that he was a lost cause?
Willy watched his large right hand, resting on the bottom of the steering wheel — powerful, capable, a veritable weapon to so many who'd suffered from its strength. But what did it represent? A surrogate for its useless left companion perpetually stuffed into his pants pocket; a reminder that he was a cripple in fact and in function. The arm had been destroyed by a bullet years ago, taken in the line of duty, and despite the handicap, Willy — with Joe's urging and to
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