The smart move would have been to arrive with backup or a weapon. But when did I ever do the smart thing lately? Blind determination was my idiotic calling card and there was more than my life at stake here.

I walked away from the door but then froze. I took a step back and peeked through the thin slat between the door and the warped frame. There were several burlap sacks and a few old milk crates piled in the corners. I also saw several shovels, an axe, and a pitchfork.

I pushed the creaking door open and walked inside.

The rain fell in drips through the ceiling, but I was scarcely aware of this. Instead, my eyes went to the milk crates. There were some children’s toys and even old notebooks in them, stacked thick to the top, some dated from decades ago. I flipped through the most recent one I came to. It did not take me long to get a glimpse into who Billy Bennett was…and a certainty that if he had not taken Jack Ellington, the bastard was probably guilty of a lot more. What I read was sickening.

…and he screamed with the cloth over his mouth and it sounded like some weak little engine…

…surprised when his ribs cracked under my weight and you should have SEEN the light go out in his eyes…

…the boards need washing again form all the blood.  I saw a fingernail there yesterday…a little chipped fingernail like half a moon…

…because I don’t know if the stupid boy was dead when I started to undress him and…

I read quickly, trying not to dwell on the words too much. In the margins, Billy had also drawn crude sketches of genitals and other body parts that made me shudder. Then I saw one line in the oldest book that sent a sharp chill up my spine:

He’s a boring, goody-two-shoes-arsehole, but Henry loves me. He’s a good father, I guess, but even he doesn’t understand the things in my head. I’m sorry, Henry….

The realization threatened to split my head open right where the hangover had started the job.

***

I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I continued to the burlap sacks. There were two of them, neither of which were tied closed. I started to feel uneasy. It was almost like this sicko wanted to get caught. I wondered how long all of this stuff had been out here, hidden by only a paltry wooden door.

One of the sacks contained nothing more than old dry pine needles. I disregarded this one and looked into the next. An odd assortment of clothes were inside, as well as a watch, a pair of sunglasses and a pair of children’s shoes. I searched through the clothes, touching them like they might bite me.

I came to a white tee shirt and was nearly slapped in the face with understanding.

On the front of the shirt was the name of a band: The Who.

The last shirt Jack Ellington had been seen wearing.

That was enough for me. Hell, I wasn’t even going to bother with going into Bennett’s house. Someone else could play hero. I was going to head back to my car and call the cops on my cellphone right now. I turned and stepped through the door, the rain still coming down.

That’s when I heard it.

A cry cut through the pouring rain. Immediately I flattened myself against the corner of the shed. Peering around the side I eyed the farmhouse, wondering if I had imagined it.

Again I heard the sound.

There was no doubt in my mind now: it was coming from the house. And whoever was making it was young.

The missing boy. It was him screaming, the boy who had recently disappeared. It had to be. As far from the house as I was, there was no way for me to tell what that scream meant. Was he hollering for help? Was he in pain? Was he dying? Was it all three?

I turned away from the building and leaned my back up against the shed, sighing. So much for going back to the car and calling the cops. With my twisted ankle that could take 20 minutes, and time was one thing I didn’t have a lot of. There was no telling what condition the boy in the house was in, or how long he had before Bennett turned him into just another pile of mud and bone.

All of a sudden I wanted a drink. No, I needed a drink. My mouth went dry and my tongue was crumpled sandpaper, threatening to choke me to death. I groped around in my jacket for my hip flask, but when I pulled it out it was empty. “Shit”.

My mind began to spin, trying to think of any way to rationalize the overwhelming thirst that had just swept over me. Maybe, I pondered, I should go back to my car and call the cops just as I had intended. Then I could drive over to a pub and drink until the real police took care of everything.

After all, I had no gun and no badge; how could anyone expect me to do anything by myself?

I had almost convinced myself that this was the best plan, when the scream sounded a third time.

If you can't do the smart thing, do the right thing.

No, I realized with grim finality. This was my case. It would have to be me. Gun or no gun, badge or no badge, I had to save that kid.

So I stood. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my ankle and pushed myself away from the shed. Trudging across the muddy ground, I headed for the house, trying to remain as hidden from view as possible. As I got closer and closer, I continued to pray that Bennett wasn’t even home. That I could just break a window, climb inside, find the boy and rescue him. No fuss, no muss.

I stayed alert as I neared the side of the house, eyeing the windows to make sure nobody was watching me. Finally I made it to the building and pressed myself flat against the wall. Slowly creeping over to a first floor window I peered inside.

Through the rain soaked glass I could just make out a dim parlor. The room was mostly bare and what furniture there was looked old and musty. Bare floorboards were stained with damp and wallpaper seemed to be peeling from the walls.

The lights were off and the house looked uninhabited, silent as a crypt. Maybe Bennett really was gone.

I crept further along to the next window, aiming for a better view. There were stacks of old newspapers, some trash bags and an old refrigerator, but no sign of the missing boy. Somewhere in the house I heard a floorboard creak as someone large moved around.

I was beginning to despair when finally I saw him.

The tiny figure was almost invisible in the dark corner. The kid couldn't have been more than nine or ten but he was filthy and ragged, clothes torn and face bruised. His wrists had been rubbed raw where plastic ties had crudely bound him to an old radiator and his mouth was gagged with a dirty rag.

For a moment I thought that I was too late and the poor boy was already gone, he was so still, but a then a miniscule breath inflated his chest and I saw hope.

I cupped my hand against the glass to get a better view. Suddenly the boy's gaze flicked up. I froze in place as our eyes met. Shit. I could see his mouth moving and he started to struggle. I shook my head and signaled for him to stay quiet.

I had to get the kid out, fast.

Still, I would have to be sure before I did anything drastic. I knew I'd need something to cut the ties with so I decided to go around the back of the house and do some reconnaissance, to learn as much as I could before making my move. Still trying to stay as flat against the wall as possible, I turned away from the window and—

That’s when it happened.

Through the torrent of water, I barely saw the board come sailing towards my face. I brought my hand up just in time, but there was still an explosion of pain in my arm and I was pretty sure a few of my fingers were broken.

I went to the ground and looked up into the pouring rain. Billy Bennett was standing over me, holding a wooden two-by-four in his hands, eyes wild with rage. The thunderous downpour coated him in water like a vengeful monster.  He raised the board, as if he were about to strike a golf ball, aimed for my face.