Chapter 10 - Ongoing Investigation

Broyles closed the last manila folder and tossed it onto the table. He sighed loudly and leaned forward, elbows resting on the worn, faux wood surface. The old table creaked and wobbled ever so slightly, but he was so exhausted by this point, he had all but ceased to care.

Out of the hundred or so people who were present at the old quarry the day of young Connie Evans' disappearance, only fifteen had filed witness statements with the local police, and unfortunately, none of them had seen anything of particular value to Broyles and Nicholas' investigation. The most anyone had seen had been the blond Evans kid – Henry – stumbling on the ice and losing his grip on Connie. No one had seen her after that, though almost everyone had witnessed Henry's near-brush with death while undertaking a doomed effort to try and rescue his sister.

In an effort to try and draw further witnesses out of hiding, Broyles and Nicholas had together made over thirty phone calls and knocked on half as many doors in the last twenty-four hours, hoping that someone might come forward as a result.

So far, no one had, and the two agents' phones had remained all but silent.

Out of a town of 8,500, you'd think someone would have heard or seen something relevant. But with this being such a tight-knit community, it's not terribly surprising, either. Rob and I are the outsiders here – by now, everyone knows it, and no one is talking.

In small towns like Rock Harbor, whenever federal officials showed up – usually the FBI or US Marshals – the locals tended to be quiet and very tight-lipped if questioned, so as to minimize their involvement in any investigation and get said federal officials to leave as quickly as possible.

Whether or not they had secrets to hide or just really valued their privacy was another matter entirely. Broyles believed that each was just as likely as the other, depending on the town.

Rock Harbor was a pretty low-profile place on the FBI's radar, and for good reason. Your average crime along this quiet section of the Maine coast rarely amounted to anything more than pickpockets and shoplifters. A case involving vandalism or a break-in occurred, at most, once or twice a year, or so Rock Harbor's Chief of Police had claimed. Crimes warranting FBI involvement – such as kidnapping or even murder – were unheard of.

Indeed, when Broyles and Nicholas were first handed the case from the Division's higher-ups down in DC, neither of them were even remotely familiar with Rock Harbor, a relatively small town on the coast of Maine. A quick perusal of Bureau files had turned up zero previous cases involving it. Strange, considering Rock Harbor's relative proximity to the Portland Field Office.

A lack of FBI involvement in the area was both a good and a bad thing. Good because, more than likely, no serious crimes had ever occurred there, and bad, because no other agents possessed firsthand knowledge of the town and its' people from prior experience.

They were flying blind here, and unless someone had a change of heart and decided to talk, this case was going nowhere fast. If that happened, it would become only one of many Division cases filed under 'Unsolved', Connie Evans would remain missing, and her family would forever be left without closure.

That was unacceptable.

But with almost everyone who had been at the quarry more or less refusing to cooperate, that was exactly what would happen.

Only fifteen people... And we've questioned all of them.

Or had they?

An idea began to form in his head, and he immediately seized upon it.

Broyles quickly dialed Nicholas' phone.

"Yeah?" Nicholas answered.

"It's me. I think there may be someone we haven't tried talking to yet."

Wind whistled through tiny cracks in the window frame, causing the thin old drapes to billow in the draft.

Somewhere else in the house, the floor creaked under a person's footsteps.

Outside, the cold gray waters of the Atlantic crashed against the rocks with a muted roar, while a flock of seagulls glided overhead, their cries echoing through the cold winter air.

But none of that was important to Mark right now, nor did it register to any of his senses. He had retreated so far within himself that practically anything could happen, and he wouldn't even notice it. Like the fact that his body was so sore and cramped from sitting in the same position on a cold hardwood floor for as long as he had. Or that he'd completely skipped breakfast that morning, and had only slept for two hours last night.

Last night...

Mark didn't think he could ever forget the events of last night.

Following Henry's fake (or as his parents believed, failed) suicide attempt, Wallace had called up Alice Davenport just after midnight, before making arrangements with the local pediatrician, Dr. John Sylvester, to come by the house in the morning and examine Henry.

Alice got there at roughly quarter to one, both to watch over the boys while Susan and Wallace got some rest and to at least try talking the situation through with Mark and Henry.

Over a period of nearly three hours, Mark had barely even looked at or said anything to the sixty-three year-old psychologist, while Henry was almost a chatterbox by comparison, babbling about how he blamed himself for what had happened to Connie, and that he didn't deserve to keep on living for failing his sister. Unfortunately, Alice took all of this at face value, while Mark knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was nothing but a ruse to engender sympathy and give Henry an excuse for any potentially out of the ordinary behavior.

It was almost four o'clock in the morning before Henry finally fell asleep on the sofa, seemingly exhausted. Maybe. You never could tell with him. Alice stayed awake, watching over him as long as she could before finally falling asleep herself around five-thirty.

Mark had curled up on one of the recliners, wrapping himself in a heavy old quilt. He tried his best to get some sleep, but with Henry less than ten feet away, and the events of the past few days hanging over his head, sleep had been all but impossible. Instead, he sat in that chair, conscious, but completely withdrawn, and did just what he was doing now:

Thinking.

Thinking about it, could he have done anything different, or said anything different last night? Even if he could've, there was no way to change it. The past was the past, and whatever choices he had made would decide the outcome of this mini-'Cold War' of sorts with Henry. Susan was definitely on Henry's side, while Wallace at the very least was willing to think things through and not jump to wild conclusions like his wife had all too readily. Henry was not only a twisted kid, he was smart – too smart.

He probably planned on Susan reacting exactly the way she did.

In a way it actually made sense, seeing as how for the moment, Henry was essentially an only child. Susan flat-out refused to accept the idea that her 'darling son' had tried to commit suicide, and so shifted the blame onto Mark, altering the facts to support her own version of what'd happened. That, or she may have deliberately misread them. But no matter how Susan had arrived at her conclusion, any inclination toward Mark telling her the truth about Henry had vanished.

Susan was now a lost cause.

And as for Wallace...

More likely than not, trying to tell his uncle would only result in alienating Wallace as well, making an already terrible situation worse.

Trying to tell Wallace, even as level-headed as he seemed, was out of the question.

But who could he tell?

Maybe Dad?

Initially Mark had seized upon the idea. That is, until realizing that while he would certainly have his father's ear, Jack Evans was in Tokyo, and over six thousand miles away, too disconnected from the situation at hand.

Dad would believe me, wouldn't he? After all, if Susan and Uncle Wallace are more likely to believe Henry than me, wouldn't Dad be more likely to believe me than Susan or Henry? It works both ways.

Unfortunately, Mark had no way to be certain. The last thing he wanted to do was potentially alienate his own father as well.

But if not Dad, then who?

Dylan Conners, perhaps?

Dylan did, in a way, agree with me when he was over here last week. He might at least be open to listening, though the truth might be a bit harder to stomach.

Henry's personality was likely to make more enemies than friends in kids his age. Somehow, Dylan was the exception, and certainly one of the few. For whatever reason, Henry saw some kind of advantage in being friends instead of simply bullying him like he probably did almost every other kid in their school.

Probably means that he's more or less a social outcast there. Granted, Dylan's the one kid from Henry's class – or school, for that matter – that I've actually met, so I may be jumping the gun a bit by simply assuming that Henry treats everyone there like he did Connie.

Then again, it would be stupid to assume that he didn't.

It was Henry, after all. Anyone he perceived as weak – be it physically or mentally – would be a target, especially the 'comic book nerds' like Mark.

I may not be 'Mr. Popular' at school back in Arizona, but I'm also not a complete outcast, either. Alan may be my best friend, but he's not my only friend.

If Dylan really was Henry's only friend – or one of them – in the long run, it just might work in Mark's favor.

Yes, that was it. Talking with Dylan, and possibly those kids who were most affected by Henry's actions, was the right way to go.

A horrible thought then struck, threatening to bring Mark's nascent plan crashing down around him:

What if Dylan was like Henry?

That could explain why they were even friends in the first place.

But why would Dylan agree that there was something 'off' about Henry? Perhaps engaging in a friendly conversation with Mark was a way of gaining his trust and inadvertently luring him back to Henry's 'side'.

Unfortunately, there was no way to know.

At least, not for sure.

There were risks in talking to Dylan, but at the moment, Mark saw no other choice. It was now or never. Things could hardly get any worse.

Henry had already – somehow – found a way to make Connie disappear, and his confidence was growing with every day that it remained a secret, hidden from everyone except Mark, whose opinions currently mattered very little in this household. Susan and Wallace had probably already seen him as troubled as the result of his mother's death. In their eyes, last night had only reinforced that position, to the extent that almost any action he took against Henry would be futile.

To complicate matters, before she left, Alice had strongly recommended that Mark come to her home office tomorrow for another counseling session, since he had talked so little earlier that morning. Susan and Wallace had readily agreed. And while Mark would have preferred to go of his own accord, he had little say in the matter, as Wallace would be driving him there before heading back into town and working out of his private office for the day.

Susan had originally wanted to pick Mark up afterward as well, to ensure that he didn't "...wander off and do something foolish," were her exact words. Instead, Wallace had convinced her to stay home and look after Henry. If their nephew was to be afforded any kind of trust, he would come back on his own.

If Mark had had any say in the matter, he wouldn't go at all. Alice was not the right person to talk to right now...

He was suddenly and rather unceremoniously brought back to reality by the pain of a heavy, pointed object hitting him in the head. A hand immediately, and almost reflexively flew up to check the point of injury. Fortunately, Mark's thick head of hair had done him some good for once, as there was no blood or even lingering pain to be had. He quickly scanned the bare wood floor in the immediate vicinity for whatever object had struck him. Within seconds, he found it:

A paper airplane.

Fashioned from notebook paper, the now-crumpled wings of this paper airplane were surprisingly sleek and aerodynamic in appearance, something that Mark had yet to learn, as his own attempts at making them had always fallen flat.

But what really caught his eye was something drawn on the underside of one of the wings. Drawn in dark red ink was the crude image of a human skull with a knife through the forehead, and blood dripping from the wound.

Mark's breath hitched in his throat.

A quiet snicker came from the hall, and Mark looked up to see Henry leaning against the door frame, a leering grin plastered on his face. Mark stood up and stared his cousin straight in the eye, not entirely ignorant of the relief his body felt at finally moving for the first time in hours.

"What was that for?" he asked, a slight undertone of anger in his voice. "Can't I have any privacy, or is that too much to expect you to understand?"

Henry shrugged nonchalantly, still wearing that stupid grin.

He added a rather annoying lilt to his voice as he talked. "Oh, I understand perfectly. You're a sore loser."

Mark audibly ground his teeth in frustration.

"Did you come in here just to mock and bully me?"

Henry's grin wavered almost imperceptibly.

"Actually, no, I didn't. If I was really mocking or bullying you, you'd be groveling at my feet right now, begging for mercy."

Mark continued to stare at him, seemingly unfazed by the not-so-subtle threat.

"Anyhow," Henry continued, "Susan wants us both downstairs."

Why can't he just call her 'mom' like every other kid does?

"Why?" Mark asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

Henry shrugged, acting clueless.

"Dunno. But there were a couple of guys going into the study, wearing suits and carrying trench coats. That, and I overhead them talking. They're the FBI guys who were here the other day."

Mark's eyes widened in surprise.

"FBI?! What do they want?"

"Apparently... they think we know something about what happened to Connie."

"Because we do," Mark replied testily, glaring over at Henry.

Henry rolled his eyes.

"Don't go getting any funny ideas about actually talking to them. Do that, and I'll put you in the guilty spot so fast, your tiny head will spin right off."

The smile had disappeared from his face and his tone was cold and menacing, eyes equally so.

Mark hung his head and sighed. One potential avenue for the truth had opened up and then closed just as fast. Henry was not only a well-practiced liar, he was good at using intimidation and blackmail to keep people quiet. And when that somehow failed, he'd twist the facts in his favor and do it in such a seemingly innocent, yet antagonistic way that almost anyone would believe him. That, or any kids his age would likely be repulsed by his behavior.

Like Mark was right now.

He brushed past Henry into the hall, but let his cousin lead the way downstairs, simply because he didn't want the added worry of having to look over his shoulder. That, or having Henry shove him down the stairs.

Susan was standing against the wall just outside the living room as the boys slowly marched down the hall toward Wallace's study. Mark looked into his aunt's face and she gave him a cold, harsh glare in return. He just barely reined in a sigh of despair and kept up his stride without saying a word.

A moment later, he nearly ran smack into Henry, who had stopped in his tracks just outside the study. For a split second Mark wondered, and then he saw why.

Two imposing-looking men, both wearing suits and plaid neckties stood off to one side of the desk, conversing in hushed tones with each other and Wallace. One was a shorter guy with largely gray hair and a mean-looking face riddled with small scars. The other was a tall African-American man with very short-cropped dark hair, who also seemed quite a bit younger and perhaps a bit less intimidating.

Wallace was first to notice the boys and motioned for them to come in. Henry moved forward rather slowly, acting the same way Mark felt – nervous and afraid.

"Boys, these gentlemen are Special Agent Nicholas, and his partner, Special Agent Broyles. They're with the FBI. I told you about them yesterday."

Mark and Henry both nodded quietly.

"Why don't you both take a seat?" Wallace suggested.

The boys both slowly went to seat themselves in the chairs in front of the desk, occasionally taking a nervous glance up at the two FBI agents as they did so.

"They're gonna be asking you guys some questions. I want you both to answer as truthfully as you can, all right?"

Henry nodded affirmatively. Mark did the same a few seconds later.

"Now if either of you need me, for any reason, I'll be right down the hall."

With that, Wallace left the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

Broyles sat off to one side of the desk, directly opposite Mark, while Nicholas occupied Wallace's big leather office chair, right across from Henry. The twelve year-olds didn't even so much as even glance up at the FBI men. And for several minutes that seemed more like several hours, they sat in awkward silence, listening to nothing more than the faint sound of the waves outside and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Surprisingly enough (or perhaps unsurprisingly, since now he'd probably get the first say in the coming conversation), Henry was the first to speak up and break the silence.

"I know what you're trying to do," he half-mumbled, seemingly to no one in particular.

Broyles raised an eyebrow and Nicholas loudly cleared his throat.

"Excuse me? What was that you just said?" the older of the two asked, in as authoritarian of a voice as he could muster without potentially scaring the kid, not knowing that the young man sitting directly in front of him was hardly scared by anything.

"I said I know what you're trying to do," Henry replied, still staring at the floor and deliberately averting his eyes.

"Oh, and just what is it that you think we're trying to do?"

"You're trying to make us sweat in awkward silence, enough that we'll say something – anything – to break it."

"In that case," Broyles observed, "It worked. You're talking right now."

"Fine," Henry grumbled, finally looking up from the floor and making eye contact first with Nicholas, and then Broyles in turn. "What do you want to know?"

"A firsthand account, young man," Nicholas answered.

Henry looked confused.

"A firsthand account of what, sir?"

"Of the twenty-four hours leading up to your sister's disappearance on the 17th of December, Mr. Evans."

Henry bit his lower lip and appeared rather uncomfortable.

"Look," Broyles interjected, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. But if you know anything, anything at all that might help us find your sister and bring her back safely..."

Henry seemed to think it over for a few seconds before giving a reluctant nod in reply.

"OK. Where do I start?"

For at least the next half-hour or so (though it was probably longer than that), Mark sat there, listening as Henry wove a rather intricate story of the events leading up to Connie's disappearance on the 17th. It was so convincing and detailed that even Mark almost believed it, and by all appearances, Henry practically had Nicholas and Broyles wrapped around his little finger. But Mark hoped that they were smarter than his cousin gave them credit for.

It also seemed that Henry was into history.

Revisionist history, that is.

First off, he told them that he'd gone to the playground with Mark to keep an eye on Connie, because he "...had a bad feeling that something might happen..." and wanted to keep his kid sister safe. While doing so, he had spotted someone suspicious out of the corner of his eye and turned around to get a better look at them. But before he could, they had already vanished, seemingly into thin air, hence why he was unable to give these FBI agents any concrete details.

To Mark, Henry's description of this non-existent person sounded something like a cross between their own mothers.

Every so often, Henry would ask Mark to corroborate, or confirm his version of events, and every time, Mark said 'yes'. But each time, it was only with extreme reluctance that he did so. He was too far in to get back out now. Henry had made certain of that.

By the time Henry finished his account – which ended with him losing his grip on Connie at the quarry, her mysterious disappearance after falling through the ice, and then his own plunge into the frigid waters, something he played up as a complete and horrifying accident by openly crying – Mark was on the verge of breaking out into a cold sweat and he was just barely keeping his hands from shaking.

Why?

Because he had lied right through his teeth to two agents of America's top law-enforcement agency, the same people who had put away guys like Al Capone and John Dillinger.

I'm going to jail for sure... he thought miserably, practically ready for them to lead him out in handcuffs.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Instead, once Nicholas had finished writing up Henry's testimony, Broyles asked Mark if he had anything to say on the matter, or to add to it.

Mark shook his head.

"No. Henry already told you pretty much everything we know. There isn't anything I could tell you that you haven't already heard from him."

"Are you sure?" asked Broyles.

Mark nodded, and at the same time barely suppressed a sudden wave of nausea. This kind of lying would get him into so much trouble, it wasn't even remotely amusing. Normally, he was terrible at it, but being around Henry for this long had apparently rubbed off on him.

That was not good.

He wasn't entirely certain he could win this fight, and even if he did, just what would it cost him? Already, being around Henry had somehow made him a better, more convincing liar.

Whatever happened in the meantime, Mark would probably leave Maine a different person than when he arrived, and not in a good way, either.

A few tense, quiet minutes later, Broyles and Nicholas stood from their seats.

"Are we done?" Henry asked.

Broyles nodded.

"Yes. For now, anyways. If we need to talk again, we know where to find you."

Another minute later, they were gone, and the boys could hear the agents' footsteps retreating down the hall. Henry looked over at Mark and grinned fiendishly. Once he was certain they were out of earshot, he started talking.

"Not a bad performance, if I do say. Y'know, I think you're getting the hang of this, Marky."

Mark just stared at him, hands now visibly trembling.

"That was all bullcrap, and you know it!" he snapped angrily.

"Keep your voice down!" Henry snapped back, annoyed.

Mark nervously ran his fingers through his hair.

"Oh, God, we just lied to the FBI... The freakin' FBI, Henry!"

His cousin simply shrugged.

"And? What are they gonna do? Arrest us?"

"M-maybe..." Mark's voice trembled.

Henry scoffed. "Not a chance. Feds don't arrest anyone unless they've got a reason. And what reason would those two have to arrest a couple of twelve year-old kids for simply telling them the truth?"

A fist clenched at Mark's side as he stood up to leave. He stopped in the doorway and turned to face Henry.

"The truth?" he asked incredulously. "You don't even know the meaning of the word. Truth here is what you want it to be. But in the real world, truth is fact, and reality. Whatever 'reality' actually means is debatable..."

"Truth is overrated, Marky."

Mark gritted his teeth.

"And stop calling me that!"

"Calling you what?" Henry asked in a mockingly innocent voice.

"You know what. That stupid nickname – 'Marky.' And just where did you get it from, anyway? Have you found some way of talking to Tom Parks?"

For once, Henry looked genuinely confused.

"Who the hell is Tom Parks?"

Mark sighed.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Just leave me alone."

Not that I expect him to actually do that...

And with that, Mark practically bolted from the study, taking the stairs two at a time, and not even slowing down until reaching 'his' room and shutting the door behind him. He sat down hard on the bed and immediately regretted it. He dropped his head into his hands almost on the verge of crying. He had just helped Henry lie to the FBI.

Could things get any worse?

Another, more powerful wave of nausea suddenly struck, and this time he couldn't keep it down.

Mark ran to the bathroom as fast as he could, and threw up in the toilet.

Apparently, they could.

Unbeknownst, to Mark, things would get much, much worse before this was all over.

A/N: Once again, apologies for the delay. I suppose quality is better than quantity when it comes to writing. In any case, I hope you liked it. Be sure to review, and PM me any questions that you might have. I'll be starting Chapter 11 this weekend, and hopefully will have it out before the end of the month. Stay tuned.