Grey Areas 2: Ghosts of Winter

GREY AREAS 2:

GHOSTS OF WINTER

BY BRAD CARL

Copyright © 2015 Brad Carl

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography

Copy editing by Free Range Editorial

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

I cannot thank you enough for purchasing and reading this book. I hope you will remember to leave a review when you are finished. Reviews are an important catalyst to an author’s long term success. Don’t forget - there are still two more books to come in the Grey Areas story!

Thank you so much for supporting my work.

—Brad

This one goes out to all the people who took time from their precious lives to read Grey Areas and enjoyed it enough to be here right now, reading this dedication…because they want to know what happens next.

I

The fifty-three-foot semi-trailer truck pulled in to the snow-covered Marble Industries parking lot and made a wide U-turn, positioning itself perpendicular to the loading dock. From the lone window inside the building, Ernie Saunders watched the truck begin to back in. Winter had hit its stride in Caribou, Maine, just like it always did by December. Thanks to Mother Nature, ice melt was a necessity in this part of the country. It kept Marble Industries in business and food on the table at the Saunders house. Ernie once estimated he had loaded close to ten thousand trucks during his twenty years with the company. But this year things would be different. Corporate had finally come through with the help he had been requesting for five years. As far as Ernie was concerned, he had earned the right to slack off every once in a while and make someone else go outside and freeze his ass off. When the driver had finished backing up to the dock, he jogged through the flurries and entered the small shipping office where Ernie sat.

Man-oh-man, it's cold here! the driver bellowed as he shook snowflakes out of his hair.

Ernie perked up from his seat behind the desk and pushed his glasses up his nose. Where you from? he asked, reaching for a folder full of orders.

I live in South Carolina but I've been in New England all week. The weather up here is ridiculous.

Well, you can't get much closer to Canada than Caribou, Ernie explained. This snow is just another day in paradise. Who you picking up for?

The driver pulled a bill of lading from his pocket and read the company name out loud. Grigsby International, he recited.

Ernie paused for a beat before responding. He took pride in knowing what was going on in the ice melt industry. Hmmm, he said. Must be a new distributor.

Beats me, the driver responded. I'm just the chauffeur.

Ernie grabbed the two-way radio on his desk and spoke into it. Hey, Dan. Got a pickup here for Grigsby. It's a full load. I'll help you.

Dan Scotwood had only been working at the warehouse for about six weeks. Ernie'd spent an entire day teaching him how to drive the forklift. It would've made more sense to hire someone with experience, but that would have cost more. Ernie hoped to impress corporate with the money he saved by teaching Dan himself and paying him less.

Ernie told the truck driver where he could find the restroom and coffee. Then he grabbed his gloves and coat, pulling the hood over his head. In the warehouse, Ernie hopped on his forklift. As he turned the key he could hear the other forklift approaching from around the corner. The brakes squeaked as it came to a halt next to Ernie. The driver was bundled from head to toe: boots, snow pants, coat, gloves, hood, and even a scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were visible beneath the hood.

We need to get those brakes looked at, Ernie said to him.

The man replied from under the scarf, but what he said was unintelligible beneath the noise of the forklift engines.

I can't hear you with that thing in your face, Dan, Ernie said, this time in a louder voice.

The man pulled the scarf down to his chin, revealing several days' growth of a beard and mustache. He grinned at Ernie. I said, I'll make a phone call as soon as we get done with this, boss, Barrett Greyson replied.

#

Agent Chase Sheehan of the Federal Bureau of Investigation drove his rental car into the Morning Glory subdivision of Aurora, Colorado. If he'd had the time he would've preferred driving all the way from D.C. instead of flying into Denver and renting a car. He hated flying. Not because he was afraid, but because his ears never seemed to want to pop. Today's flight had been particularly painful. The pressure in his ears was so excruciating that Chase used the plane's restroom to throw up. Ironically, the heaving caused his ears to pop a bit, making the rest of the flight more manageable.

After landing his ears were still plugged. Every so often Chase would pinch his nostrils, close his mouth, and try to exhale through his nose to relieve the pressure that was causing some minor temporary deafness. These attempts did nothing for his hearing, but at least his ears no longer hurt now that he was on the ground. The entire ordeal was just a nuisance now. One that he would have to ignore for a while. Chase knew a good night's sleep would solve most of the problem and he'd be back to normal by tomorrow.

The car's GPS announced he had arrived at 17402 Rockland Drive. Chase brought the vehicle to a stop at the curb and put it in park. He sighed and gripped his nose, making one more effort to pop his ears. No dice. He exited the car and walked up the driveway to the front door. After ringing the doorbell, Chase stood still and waited, arms crossed behind his back. He wondered if anything would come of this visit.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman with short auburn hair greeted him.

Agent Sheehan I presume? the woman said.

Yes, ma'am, Chase replied.

I'm Ella Greyson, she said, holding out her hand. We've been expecting you, Agent. Come in.

Chase shook her hand then pulled his credentials from his breast pocket. Mrs. Greyson gave them a quick glance and led him to the kitchen.

At the table sat an average-sized bald man in his late fifties. He was drinking coffee and reading the Rocky Mountain News. When he realized there was a guest in the room he jumped up from the table.

I guess I didn't hear the doorbell, he said. Trapped deep in what I was reading, apparently.

Honey, this is Agent Chase Sheehan, Mrs. Greyson said.

Hello, Agent. Nice to finally meet you, the man said. I'm Frank Greyson.

After shaking hands with Mr. Greyson, Chase was invited to join him at the table.

Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Chase told them as he sat down across from Mr. Greyson. Mrs. Greyson took the chair next to her husband.

I should mention, Mr. Greyson said, I'm not sure we have anything more to tell you than what we already have over the telephone.

I can appreciate that, Chase said. Sometimes getting together face-to-face can help bring something to the surface that might've otherwise been overlooked. It's standard procedure, really.

Up until a couple of months ago we had assumed our son was dead, Mr. Greyson reminded him. I don't think we have any new information, but we're willing to help out in any way we can.

I'm glad to hear that, Chase said. Because I'm also here to ask you for a favor.

A favor from us? Mr. Greyson asked.

Yes. I need you to hold a press conference and ask your son to come home, Chase explained.

Frank Greyson looked at his wife and then back at Chase.

A press conference? Mr. Greyson echoed.

We just don't have much to go on, Chase said. The only good lead we have is the make, model, and color of the car he was driving when he left Gable, Iowa.

Would he see the press conference? Do you think it would work? Mr. Greyson asked.

It's possible, Chase answered. It certainly wouldn't hurt.

Mrs. Greyson glared at Chase.

You guys only want to find him because you think he's a murderer!

Her husband reached over and stroked her arm to help calm her down, but his gaze remained on the FBI agent.

I know Barrett didn't kill Otto Clevinger, Mr. Greyson said with such confidence Chase almost believed him.

Again, I can appreciate your stance, Chase said, realizing immediately this was a poor choice of words.

It's not a 'stance,' Agent Sheehan, Mr. Greyson explained. It's a fact. And my wife is right. The FBI only wants Barrett so they can throw him in prison.

Chase sighed.

Another family in denial, he thought to himself. Maybe they'll snap out of it when the DNA test results come back. Or maybe they won't.

Look, Mr. and Mrs. Greyson. I know it sounds trite, but I'm just trying to do my job.

The three of them were silent for a few moments before Chase continued.

You both have repeatedly told me Barrett is innocent. But can either of you explain why, if he did nothing wrong, he ran away?

Honestly, Agent, Mr. Greyson said. We don't even know that he ran away. He left his wallet, driver's license, and credit cards behind. Doesn't that seem more like an abduction to you?

You think someone took him? Chase asked. Who would do that?

I don't know. I'm just throwing theories out there. Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing?

I'm supposed to look at the facts, Chase explained. And the facts are that your son disappeared from the Denver area shortly after he was questioned by local police regarding the murder of Otto Clevinger. A few weeks later we learned he had traveled to Gable, Iowa, of his own free will, using the alias Henry Fields and driving a car that he did not own when he was in Colorado. Surely you can understand where I'm coming from.

Ella Greyson spoke for the first time since her outburst. Her tone was much calmer now. Agent Sheehan, do you have children?

Yes, ma'am, Chase replied. I have an eight-year-old daughter.

Can you fathom the idea of her committing murder? Do you have any idea how you would react to such a thing?

Chase put his head down and thought about this for a moment as she continued.

I'm sure you love your little girl just as much as we love Barrett. And I'm sure you can also admit that you would do anything to protect your child from harm, no matter the circumstances.

Chase raised his head and looked at the two parents as Ella Greyson went on.

I think my son is scared, Agent Sheehan, she said. Not because he committed a crime but because he doesn't know if he can prove he didn't.

Chase held his hands open in front of him. Help me get him back home. In return, I promise you I will do everything I can to help prove his innocence. If your son did not kill Otto Clevinger, I need his help to find out who did. Can you understand that?

The Greysons looked at each other and paused for a moment before nodding in unison.

We understand. We'll do the press conference, Mr. Greyson agreed. Just tell us where and when.

#

The snow had started to fall in Gable around four o'clock the previous afternoon. Now, sixteen hours later, there was almost a foot of it covering the small town and surrounding areas. Making matters worse were the gusting winds blowing the snow across Highway 57, causing drifts and making travel impossible for anything other than a snowmobile or a yeti. And, of course, the temperature was unbearable thanks to the wind chill. This was a winter storm in Iowa.

Claire Mathison lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She listened to the whipping wind and the pelting of snow against her bedroom window. Wilson was curled in a ball, his head between Claire's shoulder and cheek. He had adjusted well to his new home, though there were fewer mice to chase than at his previous house.

The events of a few months ago had confused Claire to the point where she now questioned her judgment more than ever. Henry was not really a Henry, but a Barrett, and quite possibly a murderer.