Chapter 4

4

August 2000

August of 2000 was a tranquil month for crime in Blake County, Iowa, located in the north-central part of the state. With a population of 7,310 at the time, the rural, agricultural county wasn't known for its crime sprees. In fact, up until the events of August 12, 2000, zero murders had been reported in the entire county.

Despite its grim name, Burden, population 844, was known as an idyllic community to live and raise a family. Located in the southwest corner of Blake County, Burden boasted a crime rate of less than a fourth of the state average.

Though it was the dawning of a new millennium, Burden remained an agriculturally centered town. Corn and soybeans were the primary crops raised by families who had lived there for generations. Children ran barefoot through windflower, prairie larkspur, and yellow star grass just like their parents and grandparents before.

Summers were made up of hard work and hard play. Farm kids rode with their fathers high on tractors during planting season, played in haylofts, and went fishing after chores were done. Little girls spent nine months of the school year learning that they could grow up to be doctors and lawyers but still came home and helped mothers and grandmothers can butter pickles and rhubarb jelly. They hand-fed orphaned goats, read books behind the corncrib, ice-skated on Burden Creek, and played tag by leaping from hay bale to hay bale.

This was twelve-year-old Josie Doyle's existence when she awoke the morning of August 11, 2000, with giddy anticipation. She dressed quickly and pulled her unruly brown hair into a ponytail.

She needed to pack and make a list of all the most important attractions to show her best friend, Becky, a state fair first-timer. But first, breakfast and chores. Josie ate quickly and flew through her assigned tasks.

It was then that Josie noticed that their chocolate Lab, Roscoe was nowhere to be found. This wasn't unusual in itself.

Roscoe was a roamer. He'd take off for hours at a time, wandering around the countryside, but Roscoe always came home and never missed breakfast. Josie would lift the lid on the plastic bin that held the fifty-pound bag of dog food, and he'd come running with cobwebs of saliva dripping from his jowls.

That morning there was no Roscoe. Josie dumped a scoop of kibble into his bowl, filled his water dish with water from the hose, and then moved on to the chickens.

To help pass the time before Becky arrived, Josie went with her father as he mended fences along the northern section of their property. His gloved hands moved expertly as he stretched and wrapped and crimped the barbwire. Josie prattled on about the upcoming state fair and danced in and out of his line of vision, nearly tumbling into the rusty fence. Josie, small for her age, seemed to others to have endless energy.

While her father worked, Josie moved aimlessly along the edge of the road gathering wildflowers as she went. She heard the truck before seeing it. The popcorn snap of gravel. She turned and saw the truck's nose just around a curve in the road. Josie waited for the vehicle to drive past, but it just sat there, so she continued picking Black-eyed Susan and milkweed for her mother.

Again came the crackle of rock beneath tires. Josie turned, and the truck stopped. She moved, and it followed, slowly keeping pace. Josie squinted to see who was in the passenger's seat, but the sun was a shimmering gold disc in the east, making it impossible to know. She wasn't scared. Her brother's friends, she figured, teasing.

"Ha, ha," Josie called. "Very funny!" She reached down and picked up a small pebble and threw it toward the truck. It landed on the ground with an unsatisfying plink. Slowly, she walked toward the vehicle, and it began reversing.

Weird, she thought and took another few steps toward the truck. It backed up another twenty feet. A game of tag. Boldly, Josie trotted toward the truck, sure that it held her brother's obnoxious friends.

As she drew closer, Josie could see the silhouette of one person in the cab. A hunched figure, seed cap pulled low over his forehead. The truck rolled backward.

Just then, a shout came from across the field. Josie's dad beckoning her back to him. She gave the idling truck one final look, but by the time Josie reached her dad forgot all about it.

Back at the house, Josie dared to open her brother's bedroom door in hopes of getting him to help her look for Roscoe.

"Leave me alone," Ethan said. He was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the bed.

"But Roscoe didn't come home last night, don't you care?" she asked.

"Not really," Ethan said flatly as he flipped through a magazine.

"What if he got hit by a car?" Josie asked, her voice rising. Ethan shrugged, not bothering to look at her.

"You'll feel bad if he doesn't come home," Josie said, grabbing a paperback book from the top of Ethan's dresser and tossing it to him, knocking the magazine from his hands. Josie couldn't help laughing.

"Get the fuck out of my room," Ethan snarled, reaching for one of his steel-toed work boots and hurling it at Josie. It struck just above her head, taking a small chunk out of the door frame.

Josie retreated quickly and ran into the bathroom, where she locked the door behind her. Ethan had been acting so bizarre lately. Getting in fights, drinking, calls from the school, calls from the sheriff. She never knew what to expect when they crossed paths, which wasn't very often since he stayed holed up in his room as much as possible. Josie waited until she heard Ethan's bedroom door open and his footsteps on the stairs before poking her head from the bathroom.

At four thirty, Becky and her mother, Margo Allen, pulled down the lane, and Josie ran outside to greet them, the screen door slamming behind her. Becky had long curly black hair that she constantly complained about and big expressive brown eyes. "I'll give you my hair, if I can have your name," Becky would always say.

Josie would have gladly made the trade. She thought Becky was beautiful, and so did everyone else. Soon after she turned thirteen, boys had been calling Becky's home and more and more she was begging off spending time with Josie to hang out with town kids. But this weekend was going to be different; Josie had Becky all to herself. They would talk and laugh and do all the things they did before life seemed so complicated.

Josie and Becky greeted each other with a squeal and a hug, and Josie relieved Becky of her sleeping bag and pillow.

"We'll drop Becky at your house Saturday night when we get back," Lynne Doyle, Josie's mother, said self-consciously, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm thinking around eight o'clock or so."

Margo asked that Lynne drop Becky off at her father's house.

"Oh, I didn't know," Lynne said as if surprised, then faltered. Josie hadn't said anything about Becky's parents splitting up. "Sure thing." Lynne dropped her gaze.

The two adults stood in awkward silence for a moment until Lynne finally spoke again.

"Another hot one today, but at least there's a breeze," Lynne said, looking to the sky stripped of clouds by a hot wind. When one ran out of things to say, there was always the weather.

"Have fun, Becky," Margo said, turning to her daughter and pulling her into a hug. "You be good and listen to Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, okay? I love you."

"I will, love you too," Becky mumbled, embarrassed by her mother's display of affection. The two girls darted into the house, up the steps to Josie's cheerful yellow room, where they dumped Becky's sleeping bag, pillow, and overnight bag on the floor.

"What do you want to do first?" Josie asked.

"The goats," Becky answered as an angry shout came from outside.

The girls moved to the open window to see what the fuss was about. Below them, Margo paused as she opened her car door, and Lynne pressed her hand against her forehead, salute-style, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. Both were looking toward the barn.

Ethan stormed out first, face set in the scowl that he seemed to wear all the time now. Close behind was their father, William. He clapped one large hand on Ethan's shoulder, whipping him around so they were face-to-face. Other angry words were swept away by the hot breeze, but fucker was clearly heard. Margo looked uneasily over at Lynne, who smiled apologetically and murmured something about teenage boys nowadays. She had been doing that a lot lately. Ethan ineffectually swatted at his father's hand.

"Honey," Lynne called out and, seeing that there was company, he let his hand fall from Ethan's shoulder. The sudden release caused Ethan to lose balance and drop to one knee. William reached down to help him up, but Ethan ignored it and got to his feet on his own. William looked over and raised his hand in greeting toward Margo. Ethan flinched as if about to be struck.

"Come on," Josie said, pulling Becky away from the window. "Let's go out back." She blinked back tears of mortification. This was just a snippet of the way her father and brother had been going at it lately.

Ethan had pulled away abruptly, his transformation sudden. He stopped talking, and when he did, it was in angry, resentful grunts. He was openly defiant and refused to help out on the farm.

"Your brother called your dad a fucker," Becky said, and just like that, the two began to giggle and couldn't stop. One of them would gather her composure and then the other would whisper fucker , and they would collapse in another fit of laughter.

After dinner, Lynne asked Ethan to run a pie she had made over to her parents' farm a mile down the road. "You go right over there and then come straight home," she ordered.

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Ethan," Lynne warned, "don't push it."

Before Josie could hear Ethan's smart-aleck response, she and Becky were out the door.

Josie's favorite spot on the farm was the big red hip roof barn. Eighty years old, it greeted Josie each morning with its broad red face. Its nose the hayloft door, its eyes the widely spaced upper windows, and its mouth the entry large enough to drive a truck through.

The barn smelled of sun-warmed sweet hay and tractor oil. It smelled of dust motes and goats. Josie filled the wooden feed bunks that ran down the center of the barn with feed. Josie filled a small bucket with pellets while Becky ran from corner to corner, searching for the mama cat and her kittens. They were squirreled away somewhere, nowhere to be found.

Josie and Becky walked back outside to where the barn opened up into a fenced area where the thirty-odd goats spent the day. When they heard the bucket bumping against her leg, the goats came running on their spindly legs. Josie and Becky reached into the bucket for the pellets and slid their hands through the fence, their palms laid flat. Becky laughed at their black caterpillar-shaped eyes and humanlike bellows.

"Hey, what's your brother doing?" Becky asked.

Josie looked up and spotted Ethan, walking toward his battered truck, a shotgun in one hand and the pie to be delivered to their grandparents balanced on the other. "I don't know, but he's definitely not supposed to be doing that," Josie said, hands on her hips.

"You are so lucky to have a big brother. He's so cute. Let's go see where he's going," Becky said, brushing the remaining pellets from her hands, and before Josie could stop her, she was running after Ethan.

"What are you going to shoot?" Becky asked breathlessly when they caught up with him.

"Kids who follow me around and won't shut up," Ethan said, barely glancing their way.

"Ha, ha," Josie deadpanned. "It's not even hunting season yet. Does dad know you're taking a gun to grandpa's?"

"I can hunt pigeons or groundhogs anytime, and no, Dad doesn't need to know every little thing I do. Besides, I'm just going to shoot at targets."

"Yeah, he'll never hear the gunshots. Good plan there, Ethan," Josie smirked, looking over at Becky, but she was focused on Ethan.

"Can we go with you?" Becky asked.

"Suit yourself," Ethan muttered as he carefully placed the shotgun in the gun rack in the back window of his truck. The girls climbed in and Becky commented on how clean it was. She poked around in his glove box, sorting through his things, pulling out a pack of gum and a tin of mints.

"You must really like fresh breath," Becky said with a laugh. Ethan blushed. Becky pulled out the Green Lantern figurine that Ethan kept in his glove box as a good luck charm and spoke in a low voice and walked the figure across his arm.

"Knock it off," Ethan said in a way that let Josie know he liked the attention Becky was giving him.

Becky chattered happily as Ethan sped down their lane and pulled right up to the porch and the red front door. "Run this in really fast and give it to grandma," Ethan ordered. "And don't hang around gabbing. I'm in a hurry."

Josie awkwardly climbed over Becky to exit the truck, the pie tipping dangerously. Not wanting to antagonize her brother, she did as Ethan said. Josie opened the front door without knocking and hurried to the kitchen where her grandparents, Matthew and Caroline Ellis, finished their own supper.

She said a hurried goodbye, and when she returned to the truck, she saw that Becky had moved so close to Ethan that their legs were touching. Josie climbed into the cab and the truck tires were spinning before she even shut the door. Instead of driving directly home, Ethan made a sharp right onto a dirt road that followed the creek's flow.

"What are you doing?" Josie asked. "Mom said to come right home."

"I'm just going to shoot for a few minutes," Ethan said as they approached a stand of Black Hills spruce on the west side of their grandfather's property and pulled up next to a rusty silver truck that was parked next to the road. "Cutter," Ethan said through the open window.

"Hey," the boy responded with a lift of a pimply chin. Cutter was one of the boys that Ethan was forbidden to hang out with anymore.

"Stay here," Ethan ordered.

Josie and Becky ignored him and climbed from the truck.

"Josie," Ethan said, his voice heavy with warning.

"What?" Josie asked innocently, her eyes wide. Next to her, Becky stifled a laugh.

"Why'd you bring them?" Cutter asked, nodding toward Josie and Becky. Cutter had a first name, but no one called him by it. He was tall and broad chested with straw-colored hair and deeply tanned skin from his hours spent working outside on the family farm. He had round, full cheeks and an easy smile that at first glance made him appear mild tempered and jovial, but upon closer inspection, his eyes were hard and held more mean than mischief.

"We're not kids," Becky said.

Cutter gave a little laugh that matched his eyes and looked the girls up and down, pausing when his eyes landed on Becky's chest. "Maybe one of you isn't," he said.

"Come on, I only have a few minutes," Ethan said, pulling his shotgun from the gun rack.

"That the one your grandpa gave you?" Cutter asked.

"Yeah," Ethan said and grabbed an old bucket from the truck's bed and walked about fifty yards away. They watched as he flipped the bucket over and set it on an old stump, then walked back. "Now, stand back."

Cutter stayed put, but Becky and Josie took three steps back while Ethan fished a shell from his pocket, slid it into the loading chamber, and gave it a pump. He raised the gun snugly to his shoulder, staggered his feet, pressed his cheek to the stock.

"Cover your ears," Josie advised, and Becky clapped her hands to her head. There was a loud bang, and the clatter of metal against metal as the bucket was knocked to the ground.

They dropped their hands, and Ethan smiled triumphantly as he lowered the gun from his shoulder.

"Cool," Becky exclaimed.

"Pretty good!" Cutter conceded, reaching for the gun. "My turn." He pulled the weapon from Ethan's hands.

"Come on," Josie said, pulling Becky toward the truck, "this is boring."

"No, I want to try it," Becky said. A flash of jealousy rippled through Josie. Becky was her best friend. The idea that she would rather spend time with her brother and Cutter than with Josie sent a flood of envy through her.

"You can't," Josie said. "It's dangerous."

"Come on, Cutter," Ethan said. "Go ahead and shoot. We have to go in a minute."

"Yeah," Cutter interjected. "Little girls shouldn't be playing with such big weapons." He held the shotgun at crotch level and waggled his tongue suggestively.

"Gross," Becky said with a laugh.

"Yeah, gross," Josie echoed.

"That's okay, you're scared." Cutter said. "We should get you back home. It's probably your bedtime."

"I'm not scared," Josie mumbled.

"Okay, then do it." He held the gun, barrel down, toward her.

Josie was tempted. She wasn't one to turn down a dare, but guns were different. Her dad had drilled into their brains how guns were not toys. How accidents happened by careless show-offs or novices who didn't respect the power a firearm possessed.

"I don't want to," Josie said casually.

"You're scared," Cutter taunted.

"I'm not," Becky piped up. "Can I try?"

"Sure, come here. I'll show you," Cutter beckoned Becky toward him. She took the gun from him and, surprised by its weight, nearly dropped it.

"Watch it," Cutter cried. "You want to shoot somebody?"

"Sorry," Becky said, flustered.

"Here, I'll show you." Cutter moved in behind Becky, reaching for the gun. He pressed his hips into her back and slid his arms around her waist, his inching fingers creeping beneath the fabric of her shirt. Becky tried to sidestep his grasp, but Cutter had her boxed in.

"I want Ethan to show me." Becky lightly elbowed her way free. Cutter's lips pursed into a sullen pout.

Ethan shrugged and showed her how to hold the rifle and peer through the sight.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," Becky said, squinting at the bucket, now lying on the ground.

"You better not do that," Josie warned. She looked around, afraid that someone might see. They would get in so much trouble.

"I just want to hold it," Becky said in a voice that made it clear that she thought Josie was acting like a baby.

"Go ahead," Josie said, "shoot your foot off. I don't care." She turned her back on them and strode to the truck to wait for the sound of more gunshots. A boom erupted, and an excited squeal came from Becky.

Cutter snatched the shotgun from her hand. "My turn." He loaded the gun and lifted it to his shoulder, but instead of aiming at the bucket, he pointed toward the trees, slowly moving the gun from left to right. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed just before pulling the trigger. There was a bang, a rustle of leaves, and then the dull thud of something hitting the ground.

"Eww," Becky said. "You shot a bird. Why'd you do that?"

They were too far away to see exactly what kind of bird the bullet struck, but it was good-sized and black. Maybe a crow or a turkey vulture.

"Trash bird, anyway," Cutter said. "Hey, you coming out later?" he asked.

Ethan cut a glance toward his sister. "Naw, I'm grounded."

"When did that ever stop you?" Cutter laughed. He turned to Josie and Becky. "How about you? You want to come out and play tonight?"

"No, thank you," Josie said, rolling her eyes. Becky blushed. Cutter laughed, but his face reddened beneath his brown tan.

Becky rubbed her shoulder where the butt of the gun recoiled.

"Now that's going to leave a bruise," Cutter said. "Maybe Ethan will kiss it all better for you."

"Shut up, Cutter," Ethan said, grabbing the gun back from him.

"Can I try again?" Becky asked.

Again, Ethan positioned himself behind Becky, and she cast a shy smile back toward Ethan. He rested his chin on her shoulder and helped her take aim. That's when William Doyle slowly drove past them in his truck.

"Oh, fuck, it's my dad," Ethan said, grabbing his shotgun from Becky.

"Gotta go," Cutter said, jogging toward his truck. "I'll see you later."

As William made a sharp U-turn, Cutter pulled away and sped off down the road. William pulled up next to Ethan's truck, stepped from his vehicle, and slammed the door. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"We were just coming back to the house," Ethan said as if there was nothing wrong.

"Jesus Christ," William said through gritted teeth as he strode toward Ethan. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"It's no big deal," Ethan said. "We were careful."

"Careful?" William repeated, a red flush creeping up his neck. "I've told you about letting others shoot your gun. It's not safe. Josie, Becky," he said, turning to the girls. "Get in my truck."

"I'm sorry," Becky said, tears filling her eyes. Josie clutched her hand.

"Jesus, Dad," Ethan said. "You're scaring her."

"Give me the gun," William said, lowering his voice.

"No," Ethan said, clutching more tightly to the shotgun. "It's mine."

William looked as if he wanted to rip the gun from Ethan's hands but knew that was how misfires happened. Instead, William strode to Ethan's truck, opened the door, yanked the keys from the ignition, and stuffed them in his pocket.

"Josie, Becky, get in my truck, now," William ordered, and the girls rushed to climb inside. Ethan shook his head and began to follow, but William held up his hand to stop him.

Ethan laughed and then realized his father wasn't joking. "You want me to walk all the way home?" he asked.

"That's the only way you are going to get anywhere for a very long time," William said.

"We have to leave my truck here?" Ethan asked in disbelief.

"Damn right," William said. "Your mom and I will pick it up later. Buckle up," William said to the girls.

Ethan lifted his chin in defiance and looked his father square in the eyes. William's fingers twitched, and for a moment, it looked as if he was going to hit Ethan. Instead, he brushed roughly past his son and stepped up into the cab of his truck.

William put the truck into Drive and drove about fifty feet down the road when an explosion filled the air. He hit the brakes and leaned his head out the window. Ethan was looking directly at them. In his hand, he held the shotgun, a grim smile on his face.

William swore under his breath and began driving again. Ethan cradled the shotgun in his arms and started walking. Josie and Becky turned to look out the back window and watched Ethan as they drove away, getting smaller and smaller until he was just a speck on the gravel road and then disappeared.

Less than eight hours later, William and Lynne Doyle were dead, and Ethan and Becky were missing.