I ruminate on that as we start toward the Explorer. I’ve always wondered if he told her what happened all those years ago. The way she looks at me sometimes . . .
We climb into the Explorer. Tension fills the cab as I start the engine and head down the driveway. I sense an array of emotions radiating from my brother, the most powerful being resentment. He shouldn’t be riding in the car with me, especially since I’m under the bann. But I sense that isn’t the main source of his discontent. He doesn’t want to help and begrudges me asking him for it. I don’t understand that. Once upon a time we were close. He was loving and protective and would have done anything for me. All of that changed the day I shot Daniel Lapp.
“I saw Sarah today,” he says after a moment.
Sarah is our sister, the middle child. Married with a baby on the way, she lives on a farm a few miles away. “How is she?” I ask.
“Frightened.” He gives me a pointed look.
“You told her about Lapp?”
“She heard the talk in town. She is afraid, Katie. She believes Lapp is alive and angry with us for what we did.”
I’d wanted to be the one to tell her. I knew the murders would frighten Sarah. But I haven’t had time to pay her a visit. “I’ll talk to her.”
“She is afraid he will harm us. She is afraid for her unborn child.” He grimaces. “For you.”
I’d known she would worry about me. Sixteen years ago, she watched me come very close to unraveling. “You know I’m fine,” I say.
Jacob nods. “She wants you to tell your English police what happened.”
I nearly drive into the ditch. “No.”
“They do not need to know all of it. Just that Lapp could be alive and killing.”
“No, Jacob. We don’t tell anyone.”
“She is frightened, Katie.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
He looks out the window, then back at me. “I do not believe Daniel is alive. But if he is . . .” Shrugging, he lets the words trail. “Maybe Sarah is right.”
“I’ll handle this,” I snap.
“How can you when you do not know where he is?”
“Hopefully, in a few hours we’ll know exactly where he is.”
Half an hour later I stop on a desolate stretch of road where railroad tracks bisect the snow-covered asphalt. Fifty yards to my left, the massive grain elevator juts from the earth like some primordial rock formation. I see triple concrete silos. A water tower tilts at a precarious angle. The original wooden structure flanks the rear and is slowly being devoured by the encroachment of the skeletal forest beyond. Front and center, the corrugated steel main building stands three stories tall, impossibly narrow at the top. The lack of proportion gives it the gangly appearance of some ugly waterfowl.
The Wilbur Seed Company elevator and silos were built in 1926, but fell to ruin in the early seventies when the new railroad came through Painters Mill. A few years later a more modern grain elevator was built on the west side of town and the Wilbur Seed Company closed its doors. The old structure is a landmark, an eyesore of historical significance, a favorite place for people to dump trash, and an attractive spot for teenagers to drink beer and make out. It is also the perfect place to hide a body . . .
For a moment, the only sound comes from the hum of the engine and the hiss of the heater. I glance at my brother to find him staring out the passenger window. I should thank him for agreeing to do this, but something inside me won’t allow it. After a lot of years of blaming myself, I finally realized I wasn’t the only one who did something wrong that day. My parents’ refusal to report the crime—my siblings’ tacit assent—tainted me for life, drove me in directions I never would have imagined. As far as I’m concerned, Jacob owes me.
Jamming the Explorer into four-wheel drive, I turn in to the entrance, using the telephone poles to guide me toward the rear.
Jacob grips the armrest. “You will get stuck in the snow.”
“I know what I’m doing.” I muscle the truck through deep drifts. The tires spin and grab alternately. The engine revs as we bounce past the steel building. I cut the wheel and we slide around to the rear where the vehicle will be out of sight from the road. The last thing I need is for some well-meaning cop—one of my own or a deputy from the sheriff’s office—driving by and finding us. A logical explanation would be hard to fabricate.