“Now, are you sure none of you would like some pie to go with that coffee? I have cherry and apple—just brought them fresh from my favorite café. Only take a sec to heat up. I like to be sure our law enforcement folks are fed and watered,” said Bowen.
“No, sir. This is perfect,” Eve said. After they’d produced (fake) identifi cation the old man had welcomed them into his home and promptly poured them each a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Eve had tried not to be too obvious, but the books that were scattered around the coffee table and corner desk in the living room already had her curiosity buzzing.
“Looks like you enjoy science,” Matthew said, pointing at a thick textbook on human genetics that rested in the center of the coffee table.
“Taught high school biology for more years than I want to admit,” said Bowen. “I like to keep my mind sharp, so I keep studying. You know, we stop learning—we die.” He motioned to the huge wolfhound at his side and muttered, “Lie down, Bugsy old girl. They aren’t gonna bite you, and if they do feel free to bite ’em back.” Then, with his coffee mug that said DOGS—BECAUSE PEOPLE SUCK in his hand, he sat in the reclining chair across from the couch where Eve, Matthew, Mark, and Luke were sitting. “So, what information do you need about my Tate?”
“Well, sir,” Eve began, speaking earnestly and looking directly into Bowen’s surprisingly clear blue eyes. “We have reason to believe that your grandson might still be alive.”
Bowen jerked like someone had slapped him. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because we found evidence that there could have been a mix-up at the dentist’s office. The records that were used to identify Tate’s body might have been inaccurate,” Eve said.
“Sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me!” Bowen said.
“Mr. Bowen, there’s something else. At the football field we found the body of a woman who has been the ringleader in a conspiracy theory involving weather and teenagers. She’s the widow of a famous geneticist—Dr. Rick Stewart. With your background in the sciences you might have heard of him. He died in a tragic boating accident five years ago,” Eve explained.
“Nope, nope. Can’t say that I’ve heard of him. What’s all that nonsense have to do with my Tate?”
“Well, it seems this woman, Cora Stewart, has involved her adopted daughter, Foster, in her conspiracy theory. Both of them were seen at the football game before the tornadoes struck. Cora’s body has been positively identified, but Foster was spotted afterward. She was driving a stolen truck and she had a passenger who she might have forced to go with her. We believe that passenger was Tate.”
Bowen didn’t say anything for several long moments. He simply studied Eve. Still silent, he turned his wise gaze to Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Then he shook his head, put his coffee cup on the end table beside his well-worn recliner, and stood.
When he spoke his words were sharp, cut off by anger and grief. “I buried Tate beside his parents—my daughter, my only child, my son-in-law, and my beautiful wife. They’re dead. And that’s the end of it. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave my home.” The big dog stirred, growling deep in her wide chest.
The four of them stood, too.
“Sir, we do apologize and know that this is a difficult subject. We are extremely sorry for your loss. But we need to be very clear. You are saying that you have not heard from Tate. At all?” Eve said.
“Was I not clear enough when I said I’d buried the boy beside his mama and daddy?”
“Yes, sir. You were,” Mark spoke up. He took a card from his pocket and held it out to Bowen. When the old man didn’t take it, Mark placed it on the coffee table. “But if you think of anything—anything at all you’d like to talk with us about—don’t hesitate to call. We won’t judge you. And you won’t be in any trouble.”
“My partner is correct, Mr. Bowen,” Eve said. “You aren’t in any trouble. Nor would Tate be if he came to us. Actually, if Tate is alive and somehow mixed up with this Foster girl, well, sir, I’m sorry to say that he’s in trouble right now. Big trouble.”
“I like to be helpful to you law enforcement types unless you’re up to tomfoolery. Well, young woman, I believe you and your partners are up to some serious tomfoolery. And this time I’m not asking. Leave my property. Now.” The big dog stood, her back easily reaching Bowen’s hip. Her yellow eyes were trained on the four interlopers as her growl deepened.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bowen,” Eve said as the four of them filed from the living room and headed to the entry foyer. Eve was directly beside an ancient-looking rotary dial phone when it began to ring. She’d been watching Bowen as he murmured in low tones to the dog, so she saw the fear and guilt that flashed across his face when the phone rang. Without looking at the old man she lifted the phone and didn’t say a word.
“G-pa! I’m so glad you’re home. Okay, I finally told Foster that we’ve been talking and she’s totally freaked. So, she’s here with me now. Would you please tell her everything’s okay?”
Eve looked up to see Linus Bowen standing directly in front of her. Her smile was feline as she said, “Oh, hello, Tate. This is Eve. I’m sure you know who I am.”
“Tate!” Bowen shouted and lunged forward, trying to grab the receiver from her, but Matthew and Luke rushed him, knocking him to the ground and wrestling roughly with him, pinning his arms behind his back as the giant dog went into high gear, barking and growling menacingly while she slowly approached them.
“Bowen! Tell your dog to back down if you ever want to talk to your grandson again!” Eve snapped at him.
“G-pa! G-pa!” Tate’s panicked voice echoed through the phone.
“Bugs, down!” Bowen commanded. The dog obeyed, hitting the ground where she stood, but she kept her yellow-eyed gaze on Matthew and Luke, and her growl was a rolling symphony of anger.
Eve smiled. “That’s better.” She spoke in the phone again. “Tate, your grandpa is right here, but—”
“This is Foster. Let Tate’s grandpa go.”
Eve’s smile widened. “Foster! How good to hear your voice!”
“Cut the crap, Eve. What do you want?”