Read Bad Men (2003) for Free Online

here, Joe. You need to take a trip back to civilization once in a while. You’re getting spooked.”
    Lockwood might have been right in advising Joe to spend more time away from the island, but he was wrong about the nature of his partner’s unease. Others, like Larry Amerling the postmaster, had expressed to Joe a sense that all was not well on Dutch Island lately, although when they spoke about such things, they used the old name.
    They called it Sanctuary.
    There had been…
incidents:
repeated break-ins at the central lookout tower, involving the destruction of even the strongest lock and chain Dupree could find, and the surge in plant growth on the pathways leading to the Site (and in winter, mind, when all that usually grew was darkness and icicles). Nobody visited the old massacre location during the winter anyway, but if the paths became overgrown, then it would be a hell of a job revealing them again when spring came.
    And then there was the accident one week before, the one that had killed Wayne Cady instantly and Sylvie Lauter a little more slowly. The accident bothered Dupree more than anything else. He had been behind Lockwood as the girl spoke her last words about lights and the dead, and Dupree recalled words once spoken by his own father.
    “Sometimes, there’s no grave deep enough to bury a bad death.”
    He looked to the south and thought that he could distinguish gaps in the trees: the circle of marsh and bog that marked the approach to the Site. He had not visited it in many months. Perhaps it was now time to return.
    From inside the tower came a low, scraping noise. Dupree undid the clasp on his holster and laid his hand on the butt of his Smith & Wesson. He stood to one side of the doorway and called out a warning.
    “Police. You want to come out of there right now, y’hear.”
    The sound came again. There were footsteps, and a voice, low and nasal, said:
    “It’s okay, Joe Dupree. It’s okay, Joe Dupree. It’s me, Joe Dupree. Me, Richie.”
    Joe stepped back as Richie Claeson appeared at the base of the tower’s main staircase, sunlight shining through the single filthy window on that level casting a soft glow over his features.
    “Richie, come on out now,” said Joe. He felt the tension release from his shoulders.
    What was I afraid of? Why did I have my hand on my gun?
    Richie appeared in the doorway, grinning. Twenty-five, and with a mental age of maybe eight. He liked to roam the island, driving his mother to distraction, but nothing had ever happened to him, and, Joe suspected, nothing ever would. Richie probably knew the island better than almost anybody, and it held no terrors for him. During the warm summer months, he even occasionally slept out beneath the stars. Nobody bothered him much, except maybe the local smart-asses when they’d had a drink or two and were trying to impress their girls.
    “Hello, Joe Dupree,” said Richie. “How are you?”
    “I’m good, thanks. Richie, I told you before about keeping out of these towers.”
    The grin on the face of the boy-man never faded.
    “I know, Joe Dupree. Stay out of the towers. I know.”
    “Yeah, well if you know, then what were you doing in there?”
    “It was open, Joe Dupree. The tower was open. I went in to take a look. I like looking.”
    Dupree knelt down and examined the chain. The padlock was open, but when he tested the lock by trying to close it, it wouldn’t catch, instead sliding in and out of the hole with a soft click.
    “And you didn’t do this?”
    “No, Joe Dupree. It was open. I went in to take a look.”
    He would have to come back out here with a new lock, Dupree figured. The kids would probably just break it again, but he had to make the effort. He closed the tower door, then wrapped the chain around the handle to give the impression that it was locked. It would have to do, for now.
    “Come on, Richie. I’ll give you a ride home.”
    He handed the Maglite to the handicapped man and watched with a