Chains
by Frank Vatel
He was listening to the Bills game on the car radio when it streaked past him. Snow pummeled the windshield, making it hard to see much of anything. Still, he had a feeling. The brain is wired to recognize certain shapes no matter what the conditions, and a body crumpled at the side of the road is one of them.
Kurt nosed the car onto the shoulder and glanced at the rearview. It was forty yards back now, a dark smudge in a field of white. A farmhouse levitated in the hills beyond.
He eyed the passenger seat, hoping a stocking cap and gloves would materialize. A brown fedora stared back at him. Sighing, he clutched the collar of his overcoat and withdrew from the Plymouth’s warm confines.
The going was difficult. Snow caked under his wingtips, throwing off his gait and making him wince with each footfall. He’d blown out a knee in the senior game in fifty-one. The injury had spared him from Korea, which suited him fine, but his leg hadn’t been right since. At least traffic wasn’t a problem. It usually wasn’t on these country roads.
As he mushed along, the scene before him crystalized. The dim outline of a barn joined the farmhouse and a sloping driveway connected the property to the road. He could see the smudge better, too. There was no doubt about it now.
The man was face-down in the mouth of his driveway, clutching a snow shovel. Kurt rolled him over and pressed two fingers against the neck. No pulse. After trying again with the same result, he sat back on his heels and took in the fella’s appearance. He was paunchy and pale, with lank wisps of silver falling out of his hunter’s cap. Horn-rimmed glasses dangled from his nose and two-day stubble dotted the chin. Kurt put him at about sixty.
His attention shifted to the farmhouse. It was on a steep incline, and the icy distance between himself and that hilltop made him want to get in the car and keep driving. Then he remembered the monsignor’s constant admonition to him: Think of the other person. Try to walk in her shoes. More than likely, the old codger had a wife waiting for him up that hill.
Alright, he thought, I’ll do my good deed.
He swung the Plymouth back toward the driveway. After hauling the old man into the backseat, Kurt covered him with a blanket. Then he got behind the wheel and gunned it up the drive.
The approaching farmhouse was lean and made of stone. A rusted-out pickup truck guarded the porticoed entrance. Kurt parked behind it, pulled the handbrake, and spied the residence. There was no sign of life. He killed the engine and left the car.
By the time he reached the front door, the biting cold had numbed his lips. He knocked, waited, and knocked again before trying the knob. It didn’t budge.
Perplexed, he surveyed the pallid farmland that stretched in every direction. How many folks living out here locked their doors for any reason, let alone to shovel snow? He returned to the Plymouth and rummaged under the blanket until he heard the man’s coat jingle. Keys in hand, he circled back to the house and unlocked the door.
The first thing that struck him as he entered the parlor was the absence of a woman’s touch. The television sat directly in front of a threadbare recliner. Don Knotts was mugging onscreen. Beside the recliner, a table console groaned under the weight of soiled dishes and empty beer bottles. A stale funk tickled his nostrils.
“Anyone home?” he called out. “Anyone?”
There must be a telephone, he thought. He gave the parlor a good once-over but found nothing.
The mystery of the odor was solved the moment he entered the kitchen. Several trash bags were piled against the door leading out to the backyard. He paced the room until he found a telephone jack embedded in the baseboard. A jack, but no phone.
He knelt to inspect the socket. Broken pins were lodged in the slots, indicating the plug had been snapped off. He ran a finger along the jagged edges and considered his next move. There was a roadside exit about ten miles back. A little town—Corman, Corinth, something like that. He could call the police from there.
Feeling a headache coming on, Kurt groaned. He didn’t have time for this. Looking after some dead hermit wasn’t his responsibility. Anyway, didn’t he have enough of his own? He’d have to call Fred when he got home, tell him the convention was a bust. Make another appointment with the bank. What kind of mood would Margaret be in? The cold fish. Why he ever bothered to—
Shhhhhkkt.
He froze.
Whatever it was, it sounded metallic—like tin cans dragging on a string. He remained still, waiting for it to reoccur, but heard nothing.
Kurt got to his feet. He retrieved a pack of smokes from his overcoat and popped a cigarette in his mouth. Then, fumbling with the lighter, he heard it again.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhkkt.
He tried to locate the source but it kept changing direction. Maybe a critter in the crawl space. Maybe.
“Anybody there?” he called.
Suddenly it halted.
Then came something else. A woman’s voice, edged with strain and sorrow.
“Please—please help.”
Kurt tossed his cigarette in the sink. “Where are you, lady?”
“I’m trapped in the cellar.”
He scanned the kitchen. There was nothing resembling a cellar door. The voice called again, more desperate now. He was about to respond when he noticed something peculiar about the icebox. It sat on a pallet with wheels. He heaved it to one side.
There it was—a floor hatch. As his gaze landed on the sliding bolt, his breath hitched. It was locked from the kitchen side.
In an instant, everything odd about this place—the secured front door, the busted jack—began to make sense. His hands shook as he retracted the bolt, opened the hatch, and called down into the cellar.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Did the old man do this to you?”
“Wachter. His name is Edwin Wachter.”
“How long have you been down there?”
The response, when it finally came, tumbled out in sobs.
“Two years.”
* * *
Corinth, Pennsylvania consisted of a bank, a lunch counter, a filling station, and a few shops that were closed early on account of the weather. Kurt was almost at the end of the main drag when something else caught his attention—a low-slung saloon with a neon Budweiser ribbon flickering in the window. A pay phone sat just outside.
After ejecting the old codger from the Plymouth, his first concern had been getting back on the road and finding a telephone. Now his mouth watered. He parked the car, bypassed the phone booth, and went in for a drink.
Two hours later, he was still drinking.
“Another whiskey?” the barkeep asked.
Kurt nodded, keeping his eyes on his hands. For a moment he was aware of the distant clink of ice. After that, the merry-go-round in his head started to whirl again.
So much like Maddie—
He stopped himself. It wouldn’t help anything, going down that road for the hundredth time. A new glass replaced the old. It was his fifth or sixth. He drained it in one pull, then reached for his ashtray. The cigarette trembled on the way to his lips.
Her hair was Maddie’s shade. Copper. She was in her twenties, as Maddie had been, with the same raw cheekbones and nervy limbs.
There was one difference, though. Maddie had been raised by city folks who had money and influence with the authorities—a fact that had plagued him for years. This one spoke in a country accent. Sue Ellen Aiken was the name she’d given him.
After negotiating the cellar stairs, he’d found her kneeling on a patch of concrete and struggling to cover herself with a blanket. Her ankle was tethered to a steel ring embedded in the floor, and the connecting chain hissed with her every movement. That explained the noise he’d heard in the kitchen. She had a toilet, a faucet, and a bare lightbulb to keep her company. There were no scars or bruises that he could see. Whatever the old codger had got up to, it wasn’t rough.
He took another drag and stared into the bottom of his glass. News of her captor’s demise had done nothing to dispel her panic. Kurt shook his head, remembering how she’d behaved toward him in that cellar. As if he were the one who’d locked her down there.
He’d promised to get help, hadn’t he? And so he would. That wasn’t in question. All he expected in return was a little civility.
“You got a ride home, mister?”
Kurt’s head jerked up. He was plenty tight now, but he caught the bartender’s meaning. His patronage wasn’t worth enough to keep this dive open in a snowstorm. Well, that was alright. A man didn’t get too many chances to play the hero in this lifetime. Might as well get it over with.
“I’m fine,” he said, laying four bucks on the wood. The barkeep collected the money with a servile nod, unstrapped his apron, and started locking up. Kurt threw on his overcoat and went out to the frozen pay phone.
Inside the booth, he picked up the receiver and stared down the keypad. He let a minute pass, then two, before returning it to the hook. He had to think this through.
He hated cops. Part of him thought it foolhardy to get involved in something like this. He knew the ones back home were still watching him, and the scrutiny had cost him business on more than one occasion. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Why not make the call and drum up some good publicity for a change? A headline in The Chronicle, a few photos. Play up the model-citizen thing. Maybe the stench of innuendo would lift.
He released a long breath and slouched against the glass. Truth was, he didn’t know what to do. Being respectable was a complicated game. He missed his past sometimes. Missed doing what he wanted, when a thousand eyes weren’t on him. At this thought, the blood in his ears began to pound.
He delved into his pockets and found six quarters and a dime. Enough for a call to Rochester. He plunged fifty cents into the slot and told the operator to put him through to the monsignor’s residence.
A reedy voice came over the line.
“Hello?”
“Father, it’s Kurt Reinhardt.” He didn’t know where to start, but the monsignor was good about that, always filling the silences with questions about Margaret, the business, his health. The conversation went on like that for a minute—warm, convivial. Then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t.
“You sound like you’ve been drinking.”
Kurt was about to deny it, but he swallowed the words. Maybe it was alright, he thought. It gave them a way into the discussion.
“How long, Kurt?”
“Just today. I guess—well, I guess that’s why I’m calling.”
“What brought it about?”
“I dunno. Sales have been down. We were really counting on Silver Springs, but there wasn’t much of a turnout. The group from Atlanta didn’t even show.”
He awaited the priest’s reply.
“Kurt.”
“Yeah.”
“You know this doesn’t work unless you’re completely forthright with me.”
Kurt winced. The throbbing in his ears was migrating to his temples, his eyes, his whole head.
“Alright,” he said. “It was during the convention. I was taking lunch downtown and—well, I saw someone.”
“Someone who reminded you of Maddie?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t speak with her?”
“No, I—I restrained myself, just like we discussed.” Kurt wondered if the monsignor was buying any of it.
The priest exhaled, his weariness palpable. “This is your cross to bear, Kurt. These impure thoughts—they may be with you always.”
Kurt straightened. When the monsignor spoke of impure thoughts, his language tended toward the optimistic. They would lessen with time, had been the suggestion, so long as doctrine was followed. This sounded different. As if he could never be normal.
“But—”
“As always, the important thing is to move forward with God, from here and now.” The priest seemed intent on getting off the line. “You have a wife, a going concern, a place in the community. And many other blessings besides.”
“I know it.”
“Alright, just remember that. God be with you.”
“Father—”
But the click had already sounded. The coins tumbled into the cashbox.
Now it was time for the big one. There was nothing left to drink, no one else to call. He removed a business card from his wallet. It was given to him by the head of a staffing agency at the convention. Leaving the farmhouse, he’d scribbled a note on the blank side:
Sue Ellen Aiken
Location: 239 Ridge Valley Road
Farmhouse. Grey stone.
He lifted the receiver. When an operator came on the line, he asked for the nearest police station. After two rings, a woman said, “Police Department.”
“Yeah. I was, uh—”
“Is this an emergency, sir?”
There was a sharpness in her voice. He didn’t like that. He already dealt with too many sharp women. Margaret, Judy down at the office—
“Sir?”
“Yes. I mean, maybe. Look, I’m not from around here, so—”
“You’re in Corinth, Pennsylvania. You’re calling the Corinth Police Department.”
“Right. But see, that’s the problem. The incident I’m reporting didn’t happen here. It’s a ways up the road.”
“Do you have the address?”
Kurt stared at the card. The words were right there, in black and white. But he couldn’t form them on his lips. And the longer he stared at them, the fainter they became, as if they were dissolving into the paper.
“Sir? The address?”
“No, no. I don’t have it.”
“Do you know which direction it was? Or anything else that might help—”
As she went on, he noticed a store across the street. “A&S Hardware” was painted on the shingle. A light was on inside.
That was it, he thought. He could do this himself. The police needn’t be any part of it.
“Sir? Are you there?”
He dropped the receiver on the hook and left the booth.
* * *
The rattle of the shopkeeper’s bell drew the cashier’s eyes to him immediately. She was a heavyset gal draped in a flannel shirt and apron. A cloud of salt-and-pepper hair gathered around her face and a cigarette dangled from her lips.
“How can I help you?” she asked. Judging from the husky voice, she was a two-packs-a-day sort.
“You got something that’ll cut through steel?” Kurt replied.
“Any type in particular? Bolt? Lock?”
“Chain-link.”
She gave him a hard look. “You visiting someone here in Corinth?”
Kurt stiffened, realizing his mistake. He should have found the bolt cutters himself rather than allow this woman to nose into his business.
“Just passing through.” He rounded into the first aisle without awaiting further conversation. He was striding past the plumbing supplies when the cashier spoke up again, her voice carrying over the shelves.
“If you’re after bolt cutters, you won’t find them there.”
Kurt’s wingtips squeaked as he came to a stop. “Where, then?” he shouted.
“Fourth aisle, left.”
He started moving again, breaking left at the endcap and ticking off the aisles as he went. Just before he arrived at number four, he stopped.
It was something in his peripheral vision. Not the bolt cutters, but something else. Something that made him relinquish any thought of bolt cutters, newspaper headlines, or clearing his name.
He took them off the pegboard. As a glare from the store lights rolled off the metal, a heavy sensation unfurled in his belly. They were the same make he’d kept in his work shed all those years ago. The ones he’d—
The ones he’d buried after all that bad business came out. They weren’t healthy to have around, the monsignor had said. They’d lead him back to his worst thoughts. But the thoughts were always there, weren’t they? There wasn’t much point in denying it. For the rest of his life, he would be shackled to the memory of those four days with Maddie. To the humidity of that shed, the smell of balsam and blood. The screaming.
He worked the pliers with his fingers. At first the grip was cold to the touch. Then it began to soften and warm, like skin. He pressed a thumbnail into it and watched the dimple fade as the rubber reconstituted.
“Those won’t help you much.”
Kurt flinched. He hadn’t noticed the woman sidle up. Turning to face her, he heard something clatter on the floor.
She knelt to retrieve the pliers, which had struck her on the leg. “You alright?” she asked.
“Fine, I’m fine.”
She eyed him for a moment. “Anyways, like I was saying. These won’t be much use. You’re gonna need at least a twenty-four-inch cutter, assuming the chain’s cargo strength. Is it?”
Kurt turned the question over in his mind, but answering it proved difficult. A decade of built-up tension was zigzagging from every nerve ending, blocking all but one idea.
“It’s not big,” he said. “More like a purse chain. Those will do fine.”
Still scrutinizing the pliers, the cashier asked him whether he needed anything else. Kurt thought about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “A rope, a rag, and some electric tape.”
The woman collected the requested items and met Kurt at the register, where she rang up his purchases. He knew how reckless he was being, laying out his intentions so obviously. But he pushed on.
“That’ll be nine-seventy-five,” the cashier said. She grabbed a paper sack from behind the counter, her eyes never leaving Kurt’s. “You sure you’re alright?”
Kurt hadn’t noticed it, but he was misting up. He withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dried his eyes. “Looks like I shouldn’t have had that drink earlier,” he said. “My first in ten years.”
He didn’t know why he’d said it, why he would confess such a thing to a stranger. Maybe because all other confessions were impossible.
She placed the last item in the sack and handed it over, nodding sympathetically. “I can relate. My husband was on the wagon nineteen years. Now it’s seventeen months.”
“Yeah?” Kurt said, tucking the package under his arm. “What happened seventeen months ago?”
“Our daughter went missing.”
Suddenly the floor seemed to tilt. Kurt’s stomach lurched.
“Holding onto that pain,” she continued. “It nearly ruined us. Finally, we had to accept we weren’t never gonna see her again—”
Kurt averted his gaze, trying to imagine he was anywhere else. It didn’t work. She kept talking, her words grinding through his skull as if propelled by a drill. He fished out his wallet, trying to move the transaction along, but his hands jittered as he opened the flaps. The woman noticed it.
“You are in bad shape,” she said. “Listen, there’s a coffee maker and a place to sit, back of the store. Whatever’s bothering you, we could talk it through. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
Kurt shook his head. “I just need some air.”
“A feller in your condition shouldn’t be out roaming—”
“Did you say nine-seventy-five?”
Finally taking the hint, she nodded and Kurt hastily withdrew the cash from his wallet. Too hastily, it turned out.
As the money hit the counter, so did the business card. For a torturous moment, Kurt watched it cartwheel across the wood, knowing with the certainty of the damned that the girl’s name would land face-up. And so it did.
He considered telling the woman everything. That her daughter was a few miles up the road, that he’d written down her name and location for the police. Then panic seized him. Why hadn’t he said anything before the card popped out? How would he explain those purchases? In one deft motion, he swept the card back into his wallet and pushed the money toward the register, telling her to keep the change. Then he turned toward the exit.
How long had it been on the counter, anyway? A second, maybe two? Nobody could decipher his scrawl that fast. The buzzing of his nerves ebbed as he approached the door, which shook with the persistent belting of the wind. It was so close now. He could almost feel the cold on his face.
But as he reached for the handle, he heard something from behind that bolted him to the spot. The unmistakable clik-clak of a shotgun.
Afterward, there was a teasing silence. A moment’s reprieve that left Kurt wondering if he’d heard wrong. It was broken, finally, by the husky voice.
“On second thought, we might need to have that talk after all.”
Frank Vatel is a writer, freelance illustrator, and noir enthusiast whose work has appeared in Bristol Noir and Reckon Review. He spends far too much time discussing crime fiction and old movies on social media and is currently penning a noir novel set during the Depression. He lives with his wife in a rapidly deteriorating apartment in Chicago. His handle on Bluesky is @frankvatel312.bsky.social.
