The Third Brother Read online

  “You said you were coming.”

  It took me a moment. Patty Bowden. Wanting help finding her missing brother and nephew. A fool’s errand forty-eight hours earlier. Now? I thought of the word Angela heard during her captivity. JJ’s. Suddenly I was interested.

  “Right. I’m sorry. Something came up.”

  “Like what? You promised.”

  “Give me the directions again. I’ll be right there.”

  I PARKED BESIDE HER double-wide trailer down a country road off U.S. 40 just under an hour later. Her house backed up to a wide soybean field, the bushy dark-green plants approaching knee level with July almost here. In the distance, cottonwoods following a river snaked in a curving line along the edge of the field. “Don’t Tread On Me” said a yellow flag with a depiction of a segmented snake that hung from a pole at the front of Bowden’s house.

  The woman who answered the door looked to be in her mid-fifties and feeling every day of it. She had graying blond hair she kept pulled back in a ponytail like a schoolgirl. She moved slowly—even more slowly than Freddy Cohen—and like him used a cane. “MS,” she said flatly, and waved away any further conversation on the topic. She was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting pullover beige blouse. The inside of the home was tidy, but the furniture looked worn and the counters in the kitchen had bare patches here and there where the linoleum had worn through. Still, it would have been three degrees from cozy but for a pair of Yorkshire terriers that crouched at her ankles and yapped incessantly at my presence. They were as comforting as broken smoke alarms you can’t silence when Dad’s trying to nap in the other room. The dogs made their displeasure clear as I followed Bowden into the living room and sank at her instruction into a red recliner whose springs felt as if they’d seen better decades. The dogs hopped on a couch beside Bowden, taking up glowering stances on either side like tiny macramé gargoyles.

  “When you called,” I began, “I wasn’t sure this was something I had time for. But some things changed recently.”

  “Things like what?”

  Without divulging the details of the warehouse escapade, I mentioned the word “JJ’s” and the fact it appeared her brother and nephew, based on the false license plate and her nephew’s tattoo, were militiamen or Sovereign Citizens or both. I looked at her for confirmation. The dogs eyed me suspiciously. I wondered whether they’d make even a single meal for Goldie.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Bowden said after a moment. “They’re Sentries, whatever that means. What about it?”

  “Nothing, I guess. Unless it has something to do with ‘JJ’s’ and that has something to do with what happened to them.”

  “Don’t know nothing about ‘JJ’s.’ But I do know those two are a couple of nitwits. Too lazy to get a driver’s license and too cheap to pay taxes, and all of sudden they’re antigovernment protesters. Real convenient.”

  “You don’t agree with that movement?”

  “Didn’t say that, did I, soldier?”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t agree with what a cock-up my brother’s made of his life, excuse my French. I couldn’t care less if aliens were probing his butt or he believed in the Ohio Grassman, long as he cleaned up his own shit. Which he didn’t, of course.”

  37

  I GLANCED AROUND THE ROOM. AT THE far end a framed painting of a Civil War battle hung over a fake fireplace, the blues and the grays caught up in a smoky swirl of mortal combat. Paperbacks and hardcovers about the Civil War lined the shelves of a small bookshelf to the right of the couch. I recognized a bunch of novels by John Jakes and Michael and Jeff Shaara, but also the Shelby Foote histories. On the top shelf sat a small walnut frame holding what appeared to be an authentic Civil War musket ball nestled on a bed of red velvet.

  “Ohio Grassman?”

  “Local legend,” she said. “Like Bigfoot, only smellier. And a vegetarian, which doesn’t seem likely if it’s from Ohio. Anyway, I didn’t call you because of what they believe. I need them found.”

  “Why? No offense, but you don’t seem like you’re all that close.”

  “We’re not. But we’re family, for what that’s worth. Plus Mike owes me five thousand dollars, which believe me is the last money I’ll ever lend him. I need it back plus the interest he promised. I’ll give you five hundred once you find him.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “OK—seven hundred, but that’s it. I’ve got repairs I need done around here and no man to do them, and I’m two payments late on my truck. I’m not made of money, like you people over in Columbus.”

  I said a little prayer for my lost groceries and let the comment go. “What if I find him and he doesn’t want to come back?”

  “You leave that to me. Once I know where he is I’ll make sure he listens to reason.”

  I sat back and considered the offer. Patty Bowden didn’t seem like the kind of woman who could afford to shed seven hundred dollars, even from a payback that large. Assuming her brother even had the money, which seemed about as likely as him making a donation to a local mosque anytime soon. But to tell the truth, it wasn’t the money I was interested in right at the moment.

  “Back to ‘JJ’s.’ Sure it doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “Like I said, don’t mean nothing to me. Mike had been running over to Brenda Renner’s a lot recently. I told him to leave the old woman alone. But he wouldn’t listen. You could ask her.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Used to be a midwife, back in the day. Home births were real popular with those militia types in the seventies and eighties. Nobody wanted nothing to do with hospitals. Plus no one had insurance, of course.”

  “Why’d your brother go to see her?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Rumor was she ran with a big-deal antigovernment type once upon a time. Delivered babies for his followers. I’m not sure half the shit they say about her is true, excuse my French again. But she’s got a little shop people like to hang out in and listen to war stories.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Who was what?”

  “This guy she ran with.”

  “Nobody you’d know. Fellow named David Derwent.”

  “Derwent—the Third Brother guy?”

  She looked at me, surprised. The Yorkies launched themselves onto their feet, bristling like electrified mopheads.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “A little bit. He’s the one who killed the prosecutor. John McQuillen. And then blew himself up two days later.”

  “That’s him, all right.”

  “Weren’t there rumors about him fathering children with his followers? Were those the babies this lady delivered?” I told her the story McQuillen had relayed of a girl—a young woman—who’d died in childbirth along with her baby.

  She shrugged. “Who knows? And who knows if any of it’s true? Brenda left town at some point, so it probably couldn’t have happened anyway. Plus, some people say Derwent killed deer with his bare hands and ate their hearts by moonlight. Hard to know what to believe.”

  “Where’s this shop?”

  “Couple miles down the road. It’s in an old converted garage. Her son has a little repair place next door. Kind of junky looking, you ask me.”

  “Maybe I’ll check it out. But—”

  “But what?”

  “The thing is. If I find your brother, and his boy, I’m going to have to tell the police. I don’t care about what happened to me. But they attacked that woman. I can’t just let that go—and neither can the cops.”

  She shook her head wearily and shifted herself, trying to get comfortable. The Yorkies shifted with her, scrambling for purchase on her lap. “Fat lot of good it’s going to do me, them sitting in jail and no way to get my money back.”

  “I understand. I just wanted to be upfront with you.”

  “You ain’t going to get paid either, that happens.”

  “I suppose that’s right.”

  She sighed. Her shou
lders sagged and she aged almost before my eyes. It occurred to me she’d probably spent much of her life cleaning up after her ne’er-do-well brother. It would get to you after a while. I should know. I’d seen the same look on my own sister’s face, more than once.

  She said, “I’ll make your share a thousand if you call me first. But that’s as high as I can go.”

  “You really don’t—”

  “I’m not saying you can’t call the police, all right? I’m just saying call me first. Give me a couple hours. I just need to get my money. After that, you can call the CIA or the KGB or whoever the hell you want to get ahold of. I just want two hours first. Is that so much to ask?”

  I eyed the Yorkies, who were poised for attack again. I’d seen friendlier-looking Tasmanian devils.

  “It’s not too much,” I said at last.

  38

  THE LIGHTS WERE ON AT THE SHOP Bowden had described when I pulled up a few minutes later. Brenda’s Books ’n Things sat at the end of a gravel drive, and looked—as Bowden had suggested—like it started life as an old stone-block Sinclair gas station. At some time in the past the station’s familiar white-and-red color scheme had been replaced by a coat of baby-blue paint now starting to fade in places. Blue seemed to be a theme with the place, from the paint job to the hand-lettered sign over the door to the painted bluebirds in little nests that formed the O’s in “Books.” A sign on the trailer to the side of the shop advertised the son’s repair business. Behind the store the driveway swooped farther up a small incline to a large pole barn. My van joined four other vehicles. The compound looked like something you often see in rural Ohio, a conglomeration of small businesses lumped together on a single piece of property, the sum of whose parts adds up to just enough of a whole to spell economic survival.

  The inside smelled of mildew and candles and coffee. A couple other customers browsed the shelves, which looked heavy on Beanie Babies, porcelain figurines, and paint-by-number kits, and light on books other than fat paperback copies of Ludlum and Clancy and Patterson thrillers. Midway down the shelves several wooden bins held heaps of wrapped hard candy. Brenda—she acknowledged her name with a smile when I inquired—was sitting at a counter at the back that was crowded with paper and trinkets. She was reading a devotional of some kind. The smile turned to a frown when I presented my card and explained the purpose of my visit and my search for Mike and Todd Bowden.

  “I know who Mike is,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “How about his boy?”

  “He was never here that much.”

  “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”

  She looked around the shop, as if hoping to find the answer on one of the shelves. She appeared to be in her late sixties or even early seventies. But despite the reading glasses perched on her nose, she had a youthful demeanor in a spacey, once-a-flower-child sort of way, as though she wouldn’t look out of place teaching yoga on a beach in California. She wore a simple denim dress with her long, gray hair plaited down her back.

  “I really don’t,” she said vaguely. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Patty said you midwifed, back in the day.”

  “Did she?” she said with a faint smile.

  “She also said you knew David Derwent. And that Mike liked to come by and hear the stories.”

  It took her a few seconds to respond, and when she did her voice was even quieter. “That was all a long time ago. I can’t remember half of it myself.”

  “You were a midwife, though?”

  Another long pause while she looked around the shop. “I delivered a lot of babies under strange conditions back then. Sometimes you didn’t really know who or what was up, or even their names. It was cash only and the fewer questions, the better. Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

  “Do you still deliver babies?”

  She shook her head with a smile.

  “Did you know Derwent?”

  “A little. I knew who he was. A good man. He paid me if people didn’t have the money for my services.”

  “People? Like his followers?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Was there anything else?” she said softly.

  “Yes. Mike Bowden mentioned a place called ‘JJ’s.’ Or maybe a person. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t.”

  A tinkle of a bell as the door to the shop opened. A man walked in wearing a blue work shirt and work pants.

  “Ma. You got a second?”

  “Trey,” Brenda said, her face brightening. “Maybe you can help this gentleman. He’s asking about Mike Bowden.”

  “Hey, how’s it going? Trey Renner.” He approached and shook my hand. His was the first in a while whose grip wasn’t north of finger-numbing. He had a funny, bowl-shaped haircut that made him look vaguely Amish, and a thin, angular face. His smile was easygoing and open.

  “Not too bad.” I looked between the two of them. “You’re her—?”

  “Son and chief troublemaker, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

  I reviewed my run-in with the Bowdens and Patty’s request that I try to find them.

  “Mike Bowden’s a bit of a loose cannon,” Renner said. “He liked to come in here and stir things up. I asked him more than once to leave. I am not surprised, what happened to you with them.”

  “So that doesn’t sound out of character?”

  “Not really. His son, Todd—he’s the real hothead. But Mike is no slouch in that department.”

  I gave him the same spiel about JJ’s. If it meant anything his face didn’t show it.

  “Don’t know. Perhaps a bar? There used to be a JJ’s Tavern down by McConnelsville, but I think it’s closed now.”

  I glanced at Brenda. She was back to studying her devotional. I said, “Patty mentioned her brother liked to come over and talk to your mom about David Derwent. About the old days.”

  Brenda murmured, without looking up, “I told him that was a long time ago. It’s like another life.”

  “That is about it,” Renner said, slowly. He dug his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “Bowden had big ideas about government, about all the problems in the country. All that militia talk. He thought it was better back in the day. Back in the seventies and eighties. But it wasn’t like what he made it out to be. It was just a bunch of hippies running around the woods. Isn’t that right, ma?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But—if I can just ask,” I said, directing the question to Brenda. “The babies that you delivered. Did any of them, you know, belong to Derwent?”

  “Listen,” Renner interrupted. “I’m not trying to be obnoxious or anything. But that’s the kind of thing Bowden kept asking. And what I’m trying to say is my mom really doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make trouble. All I want is to figure out where Bowden went. Bowden and his boy. The only reason I brought that stuff up is because he did, apparently.”

  “And I am telling you she doesn’t want to talk about it.” Spoken in his same slow cadence, but now his smile tightened for the first time since he entered the shop.

  “There’s also a story out there that a girl died in childbirth. Her and her baby. Is that true?”

  “I told you—”

  I held up my hand to interrupt him. I could tell from the look in his eyes I’d crossed a line.

  “It’s OK. I get it. I gave your mom my card. If you have any idea where Mike Bowden might have got himself to, either of you, can you let me know?”

  “Sure,” Renner said. “But I wouldn’t hold your breath. Not with those two.”

  I thanked them and left them at the counter. I browsed for a couple minutes, finally pulling a Kevin O’Brien thriller off the shelf to buy, just to be neighborly. Brenda thanked me but didn’t say more. Outside, Renner was waiti
ng for me by my van. I walked up to him and took in the view. The compound overlooked a cornfield across the road that could have swallowed up a dozen high school football stadiums, a hardwood forest beyond that, lush treetops nearly black in the dimming light of dusk.

  “Nice out here.”

  “God’s country,” Renner said.

  “How’s business?” I nodded at his repair shop.

  “Booming.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Everybody’s got a coffee pot or a washing machine or a computer on the fritz, and nobody wants to drive into town to get it fixed.”

  “Good opportunity, then.”

  “I suppose so. People don’t know how to repair their own stuff anymore. Bad for them, good for me.”

  “Listen, thanks for the help. Sorry to bug your mom.”

  “It’s OK, pal. The thing is.” He glanced behind him, back to the shop. “She’s had some memory issues lately, doesn’t remember things so well. And when she doesn’t, she gets upset. That’s why I was trying to cut you off. I’ve got to look out for her.”

  “Mike Bowden wasn’t helping much, I’m guessing.”

  “Yes,” he said, a kind of formal relief in his voice. “That is what I was trying to say.”

  “Well, give me a call if you happen to hear anything.”

  “Will do. Be safe.”

  We shook hands and I pulled out of the parking lot and headed west, back to Columbus. Other than the paperback sitting on the seat beside me, I wondered how much I’d really gotten out of the past few hours, in the end. At this point, the chances of finding the Bowdens and getting Patty Bowden’s money back for her were probably as good as finding Abdi Mohamed. Or the Ohio Grassman.

  39

  I WAS PULLING UP IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE just short of an hour later when Helene Paulus called again. I decided to answer this time. We spoke as I unlocked the front door, went inside, opened a can of Black Label, and filled a small bowl with pretzels. Hopalong nosed at the back door and I let him out. I turned to the sink and filled a pot with water. I set it on the stove and lit the flame beneath it.