Lily is missing and I’ve got a sinking feeling Nate Watkins has her, along with his attack dogs, a shotgun and a mean streak.
I can’t go up against him alone and I’m not sure Frank Warner, Lily’s father, would be much of a back-up if things went south, which I’m sure they would.
I’l have to see how he feels about confronting a neighbour—even one he’s referred to as ‘a feral critter’.
I drove back to the farm and saw that Frank was back and looked worried.
“Any luck?” he asked.
I shook my head. “How about you?”
“I’m real concerned, Martin. One of Lily’s friends was passing our farm yesterday and saw Lily talking to someone in a battered green pick up truck.”
“Do you know anyone in the area that drives a truck like that?”
He nodded. “Bill Watkins—he used to own a rusty old Chevy Silverado—it was a dark green colour.”
That was enough for me.
Within the hour we were back at Nate’s farm with the police. The sergeant was well aware of Nate—all he would tell us was that Nate was known to them.
The sergeant was stern:
“You’d best co-operate, Nate and let us look around—otherwise we’ll be back with a warrant and tear the place apart.”
Nate was defiant. “Search the place—what do I care? You won’t find nuthin.”
The police searched the house and all the outbuildings without finding a trace of Lily. Nate sat minding his dogs, a smirk plastered across his face.
The sergeant was apologetic. “I don’t know what else we can do Mr. Warner—Nate says he didn’t speak to your daughter.”
I was frantic. “There’s got be some other place he’s hiding her. Think, Frank—is there some other building on the property?”
“Not that I know of—I didn’t know Old Bill that well—we just talked occasionally. He was more a retreater than a prepper like me.”
I looked confused, so he went on to explain: “The old-style survivalists like Bill were called retreaters—it’s a term not used nowadays. These people were more into conflict-avoidance and remote invisibilty. They weren’t inclined to get into a shooting war with ‘goblins’—criminal miscreants who might want to invade their shelters or raid their stockpiles.”
A thought hit me. I grabbed Frank and almost shook him by the lapels of his coat.
“But if Old Bill wanted to retreat and be invisible then he must have a concealed shelter around here somewhere.”
Lights went on in Frank’s eyes. “You’re right! We have to look for a clandestine retreat. It could be in the woods, or a cave.”
The sergeant overheard and began dividing the property into quadrants and assigning squads to search each one carefully.
Frank and I elected to be rovers ranging freely over the property in search of clues.
After two hours of fruitless search, nothing turned up. The smirk was back on Nate’s face as his morose disposition gave way to a jaunty cockiness.
“You coppers are gonna look really bad when I hire a lawyer and sue you for damages to my property and reputation.”
The sergeant smiled grimly. “I doubt you have much of a reputation left to damage, Nate—and as for this property, well, I’d say it’s been neglecting itself for some time now, don’t you think?”
Nate scowled and turned away.
I was staring at the ground and my eye was drawn to a faint but familiar pattern impressed in the wet clay. It was the distinctive tread mark of Lily’s sneakers.
I grabbed Frank by the arm, and pointed to the periphery of the farmyard “Look! That’s the tread mark of Lily’s sneakers.”
Frank bent down and studied the imprint and then looked furtively around the yard. He spied a garden rake leaning up against a fence and ran over and grabbed it.
“Hey! What are you doing?” cried Nate.
“Looking for my daughter,” Frank spat back.
He inverted the rake and used the wooden pole as a sounding rod stabbing it into the earth.
“You-you’re out of your mind,” Nate sputtered.
“Am I?” The tip of the rake hit something solid that echoed hollowly.
Nate began sidling toward his truck, but the sergeant ordered a nearby officer to watch him and restrain him with force if necessary.
Frank used the flat part of the rake to plough the dirt away and a steel trapdoor was revealed. He slid the bolt back and using the tines of the rake, pried it open.
A wooden ladder led down into a shaft. A policeman handed Frank a flashlight and he descended into the shaft with me right behind.
There was a long passageway shored up with heavy wooden beams that led back in the direction of the ravine. We followed it and it led to another iron door that was bolted, but not locked.
Frank slid the bolt and we entered a room that resembled a jail cell—it had an open window that was barred, but light from outside dimly filtered through.
In the corner, chained to a wall was Lily, asleep on a mattress.
Frank went to her and gently woke her. She sobbed in his arms.
On the drive back to Frank’s farm my mood was grim.
It seemed ironic to me—we always prepare for doomsday and ignore the smaller dangers that threaten our unhappiness.
It was a watershed moment for the three of us to realize we needed to nurture our relationship and not focus so much on future hopes or fears.
Perhaps the good that could come out of this experience was to appreciate how much we needed to cling to each other...
In the end, that was all we had or needed.
