Page 107 of Unnatural Death

… When I’ve been to the house the kid slinks around like a ferret, Wally told Fabian.He gives me a bad feeling, and I think he knows something about what happened. Mike Abel has a ten-million-dollar policy, and the insurance company is arguing we can’t prove he didn’t commit suicide, which would forfeit the payout. So, you can see the problem …

That would be a difficult way to kill yourself and not a sure thing, Fabian answered.What if it didn’t work? And he ended up in a wheelchair …?

If Ledger witnessed what happened, he has information that’s financially important, Wally Jonas is implying. Butthe kidisn’t talking, and I head downstairs, stopping in the entryway to put on my coat and boots.

CHAPTER 40

AS WE DRIVE AWAY from Old Town, the sun is directly overhead and glaring. Water drips from trees, and roads are soupy with melting snow. Emergency crews are out in their trucks repairing downed power lines, and it’s predicted that the main roads will be clear by the end of the day. The side streets, alleys and rural unpaved lanes are another matter.

Benton turns off on Route 28 headed into Nokesville, and there’s very little traffic. Deep slushy puddles drum the undercarriage of his all-wheel-drive black Tesla SUV. We follow the same heading that Lucy and I flew along early yesterday morning. But everything looks different from the ground, especially when blanketed in snow. Horses and cows are in the barns, the fenced-in fields endless aprons of unbroken white.

For the next hour we talk about Carrie, and it goes without saying that she’s an unwelcome presence. She seems to be inside the car with us, and I deeply resent it.

“If I’d told you at the time, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Benton says. “All it would have done was ruin your peace of mind for the past seven years.”

“I understand the reason. But my peace of mind is for me to manage.”

“Everything will be okay. I promise.”

“And you really can’t promise that, either.” I look over at his handsome profile, his graceful hands on the wheel. “All you can control is being truthful with me going forward. I don’t want to find out Carrie’s in this country. Worse yet, in Virginia. And you didn’t tell me.”

“That won’t happen,” he says as we drive along freight rail tracks winding through the middle of Nokesville.

Hector’s Mexican restaurant is closed. So is Carini’s Pizzeria. The winery we pass is deserted, and we find ourselves on a two-lane road that hasn’t been touched by a snowplow. I can see the dairy farm’s blue-and-white silo in the distance.

“What we don’t want is to be driving these roads after dark,” Benton says. “I’ve let certain key people know where we are and what we’re doing, including Lucy and Tron.”

“I’m assuming we’re not walking into trouble. Because nobody could get to us in a hurry,” I reply as I look out at endless miles of snowy countryside, the Blue Ridge Mountains on the distant horizon. “And this is what’s so awful, Benton. Now I have to second-guess absolutely everything. As we’ve learned from bitter experiences in the past? Just when we get comfortable, Carrie does something awful.”

“We can’t let other people dictate how we live our lives,” he replies.

“We can say that all we want, and it doesn’t make it true, Benton. For all we know that wasn’t Ledger Smithson on the phone a little while ago. How the hell do I really know who it was and how the person got my number? Especially when we consider the hacking going on? I’m not sure what we can trust.”

“That’s why we’re being careful. That’s why I’ve made sure that certain parties know where we are and why,” he says, and ahead on the left is the brick columned entrance to Abel Dairy.

If we continued along this road, we’d reach the mile-long driveway leading to the Mansons’ farmhouse. I can’t see it from here, but a helicopter is hovering in that area, and I would expect the news coverage to be nonstop.

“Someone’s been driving in and out,” Benton says as we slosh along the gravel lane cutting through the dairy farm.

Wheel tracks indicate there’s been a fair amount of traffic. Yet I’m not seeing a vehicle anywhere, no sign anyone is here now.

“I’m definitely not feeling good about this,” I comment. “I sure hope Ledger isn’t playing some sort of game with us.”

The main house is two-story redbrick with a huge wraparound porch and a cow weather vane on the roof. The driveway is rutted with more tire tracks, and I remember passing the house when Fabian and I responded to the cornfield where the tractor overturned.

“Keep going,” I say to Benton as I point up ahead. “Everything looks the damn same in the snow but on the other side of those trees should be the cornfield. As I recall, it’s about ten acres and backs up to the woods.”

We clear the trees I’m talking about, and beyond is where Mike Abel was crushed to death three months ago. The snow is smooth and unmarked. It’s drifted against tree trunks and untouched in woods that become the dense forestland of Buckingham Run. When I was here in August, I didn’t notice what’s obvious now.

“There’s a path.” I point at the narrow snow-covered clearing that leads from the field and through the woods.

“You up for seeing where it goes?”

“You don’t have to ask,” I reply as Benton stops the car, shifting into park.

“What I’m not seeing is any sign of Ledger. And it doesn’t look like he or anyone else has been out here since it snowed.” Benton opens his door.

“Why am I not surprised?” I climb out of the car, zipping up my coat.

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