The Lie

This story was written as an entry in the 2011 NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Contest. I had 2 days to write a <1,000 word story with the following prompts:

Genre = Mystery // Location = Horse Stable // Object = Bouquet of Flowers

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“Watson! I think I found something!”

The chocolate blood hound lifted his wrinkled nose from a pile of hay and bounded towards his master with forced energy, a slobbering tongue hanging from his mouth.

“Look here…” Detective Charlie Durham knelt down and placed his hand gently on the ground. A trail of two parallel lines cut through the dirt and straw, leading outside the stable doors. “The missing victim must have been dragged after he was knocked out,” he noted, trying to hide the quiver of sorrow in his voice. Watson looked at him and tilted his head to the left, raising an ear questioningly.

Charlie had been hiding an important piece of information from Watson. The victim was closer to him than anyone realized. 

It was his father. 

Suddenly, the dog barked and ran off after a nearby squirrel. Some partner. It was probably for the best though, Charlie needed some time to think things over. He stood up and followed the tracks outside. They arched to the left, toward a fenced in area, home to a couple of horses. In front of the fence sat a wagon with two wooden wheels. Charlie bent over and examined the tracks more closely. He pulled a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and zoomed in on one of the streaks through the dirt. It made sense now. These tracks were much too deep and defined to be from dragging a body. The assailant must have used the wagon to carry his father. He looked to where the wagon waited. It was tempting to examine for clues, but he figured it would be best to start over from the beginning with this new perspective. Maybe he could figure out how his father had been caught off guard. Charlie turned and followed the wheel tracks back into the horse stable. 

Eventually, he found himself next to a horse stall. On the door a name had been carved into the wood: Redman. It was his father’s favorite horse, a chestnut stallion that could outrun cars and jump over entire buildings—or so his father had said in bedtime stories. Unfortunately, Redman was taken to a better farm last year. What was the significance?

Exiting the stable again, Charlie followed the sounds of playful barking to fetch Watson. He would need the canine’s expert clue-finding skills to help figure this one out. He spotted the deep brown form running back and forth through a pile of leaves. Charlie would have to rake the colorful stars back into a pile later. He called his friend over, scolding him for ruining the pile. Watson responded with an attempt at puppy-dog eyes that were half hidden by large folds of skin on his brow. Charlie smiled and rubbed his hand on the back of the dog’s neck through furrows of loose skin. He could never truly be angry with his best friend.

Satisfied with the scratching, Watson trudged onward, sniffing the tracks as he went. Charlie focused back to the task at hand. It still made no sense. Why would someone kidnap his father? Who could his father possibly be a threat to? 

A chilling wind cut through his plaid detective’s jacket as he and Watson arrived at the wagon. The dog leapt up into the bed of the cart and sniffed around the corners.

It was empty.

Charlie, again, took out his trusty magnifying glass and examined the wooden structure. He tried to read the pattern of the grains and cracks, begging for any sort of trace. A hair. A fiber of clothing. Anything would ease the sinking feeling in his heart. But there were none. 

A sudden overwhelming rush of pain seeped from the pit of Charlie’s chest and burrowed down into his stomach, leaving an empty path as it travelled. 

He realized it now. 

He wasn’t going to find any clues. 

He wasn’t ever going to see his father again.

Charlie’s legs went limp. He let his knees collapse into the dirt and sat with his back leaning against the wheel of the wagon. Watson clambered down from above and nestled his heavy head on Charlie’s lap, licking the magnifying glass in his hand. Charlie looked at the useless piece of glass. He let it slip from his fingers and fall to the ground as great lakes flowed over the dams in his eyes and poured down his cheeks.

He let himself cry, defeated.

“Good-bye, Daddy,” he whispered.

* * *

Felicity Durham stood at the sink. She was trying to keep herself occupied, but it didn’t help. She washed the dishes with a mix of soap, water, and her own tears. The window in front of her was a portal into what felt like Hell. For the past hour, she had been watching her son Charlie wander around the yard dressed in a plaid jacket and detective’s cap, wielding a toy magnifying glass, searching for his father. 

Felicity averted her eyes, looking to the picture on the windowsill. It was taken on her wedding day. She held a bouquet of flowers over her large belly, pregnant with Charlie at the time. She tipped the picture face down. That had been almost ten years ago. Charlie’s father had stood beside her—a place he would never be again. 

Felicity massaged a bruised cheek and wiped the tears from her face, but more replaced them in a continuous river.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” a small voice sniffled from behind. Watson rubbed up against her leg and she knelt down to pet him, trying to compose herself.

‘Hi Charlie. Yes, I’m okay,” she said, finally turning and hugging his head into her body. “How’s your back?” Felicity lifted his shirt and rubbed her hand against the red lines there. She felt his muscles tense in pain and continued to massage softly.

“It’s okay. I just wish Daddy was here to fix it.”

Her hand hesitated, pulling away slightly before she caught herself.

“I do too, Charlie. I do too.”

(c) Kade Kessler 2011

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