The Fort (Aric Davis)

setting the floor on fire. The woman was snuffling, but when Van Endel said, “Get up, get your ass outside,” she did.
    Once they were out of the trailer, Van Endel shoved the woman into the backseat with the man, for lack of a better spot to keep her, then slammed the door closed. The two girls from the couch were standing together just a step or two away on the front stoop, smoking cigarettes. They were younger than Van Endel had initially figured, twelve or thirteen, most likely. “Dispatch, I need CPS and backup now.” He looked back at the girls. “Send some EMTs too. And tell them to hurry.” He set the walkie-talkie down, shaking his head at just how fucked up the world could be, as the twins smoked and stared through him.
    The first squad car was there about three minutes later. He would have been there sooner, the cop driving it explained, but he’d been getting gas about a mile away when the call came through. They loaded the male into the squad car after the uniform had Mirandized the pair, and then Van Endel and the cop, a guy named Mike whom he had seen around before, leaned against the hood of the Caprice.
    “Kind of fucked,” said Mike, then nodded at the two girls. The smoke had stopped spilling from the house, but not from the twins’ mouths.
    “Agreed,” said Van Endel. “Very much agreed.”
    “I mean, they’re what, like, fourteen, tops?” Mike asked incredulously, and Van Endel just nodded. The whole thing made him sick. “How did you even know to check this place?” Mike asked, and the question made the hackles on the back of Van Endel’s neck rise up. Luke. Mike was rambling on: “There is a shitload of filth in there. It’s a hell of a bust.”
    “I was here looking for a kid,” said Van Endel. Goddammit, he’d forgotten. “Whole separate case, believe it or not. Speaking of which, I need to go ask Mama Bear back there a couple questions. I’ll be back.”
    “Sounds good, but that’s crazy that this is just dumb luck,” called Mike, as Van Endel walked to the rear door of the Caprice and opened it. The woman wasn’t snuffling anymore. She was staring at him with an evil look in her eyes, and he buried the urge to punch her in the face.
    “I need to know about your son, Luke,” said Van Endel. “Did he stay the night at a friend’s house?”
    “How the fuck should I know?” said the woman. “He ran off a few days ago. I figured you were coming by to tell me he did something wrong, stole food or some shit.”
    “He hasn’t been home at all?” Van Endel asked with disbelief in his voice. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
    “Not my problem,” said the woman. “He run off, that’s the state’s problem. He’s yours to deal with, and you’re welcome to him.”
    Van Endel considered explaining to her exactly how and why that opinion was incorrect, deciding instead that one of the masochists who worked for CPS might do a better job of explaining it all to her.
    “Any idea where he might be?”
    “I figure he’s probably staying in the tree fort he and his friends built off in those woods,” she said, flailing her arm at the visible line of trees.
    Van Endel closed the door and walked back to Mike.
    “I’m going to follow upon the hunch that brought me out here in the first place and go for a little sightseeing. You mind holding things down for a few minutes?”
    “Not at all,” said Mike. Van Endel took his walkie-talkie from its place on the hood, shook his head, and headed off to the forest. He was under the canopy in just a few minutes and, not sure of where to walk, started trying to recall some of the tracking skills his dad had taught him on mostly forgettable hunting trips up north. Seeing a path worn by tennis shoes, Van Endel began to follow it, trying to watch up as much as he did down. After about ten minutes walking, Van Endel was at the fort.
    “Anybody up there?” Van Endel called, and when there was no response, he walked to one of three ladders built into the trees the platform was supported by. After testing the first rung, Van Endel began to climb, questioning his sanity internally with every rung. Finally at the top, Van Endel was happy to find that there was no injured boy—or, worse—boys waiting for him. There were a few bits of gas-station-food trash, and then he saw something that did catch his eye. Huh. Bet nobody’s folks knew they were shooting a .22 off up here. He pocketed the brass casing, kicked at the