Chapter 9 - The Empty Tarp
The heavy silence of the backyard was broken only by the low, distant hum of traffic on the highway half a mile away. David didn't wait for permission. He walked with swift, decisive steps straight into the dark interior of the toolshed, reached down, and grabbed the corner of the faded blue tarp. With a sharp tug, he ripped it away, sending a cloud of dusty cobwebs billowing into the air.
Beneath the tarp sat a large, commercial-grade galvanized steel drum, its surface heavily pitted with rust and green corrosion. But the heavy padlock that had secured the chain a few minutes ago was gone, lying broken and battered on the wooden floorboards beside the container. The lid of the drum wasn't sealed down—it was slightly ajar, resting crookedly against the rim as if someone had forced it open in a desperate hurry and never bothered to close it back up.
Sarah crept cautiously to the doorway, her hands clamped over her mouth as she peered inside the shed. "Is... is he in there?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own ragged breathing.
David stepped closer, pulling a pair of disposable latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapping them onto his hands. He grabbed the edge of the heavy steel lid and pulled it slowly upward. The metal shrieked in protest against the rusted hinges, lifting away to reveal the interior of the drum.
It was completely empty.
Except for a small, neatly folded leather wallet sitting at the very bottom, resting against a layer of dry, decomposed soil.
Elena stumbled forward into the shed, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared into the empty metal container. She fell to her knees beside David, her hands gripping the cold rim of the drum as she shook her head frantically. "No... no, that's impossible. He was right here. We poured the quick-setting cement right over the top of the inner seal. Nobody could have gotten him out without a jackhammer."
Mark staggered into the doorway, his face pale as death as he looked down into the empty barrel. He reached out a trembling hand, grabbing the edge of the metal frame for support. "I checked the lock every single week," Mark mumbled, his voice spiraling into madness. "Every single week for twenty years! The chain was never broken until... until last month."
David reached down with his gloved hand, picking up the small leather wallet from the bottom of the barrel. He opened it carefully. Inside, behind a faded plastic window, was a driver’s license issued in the state of New York, bearing the name Thomas Mercer, along with a crisp, unblemished business card dated just three days ago from a local motel down on Route 4.
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"He wasn't inside this drum when you poured the concrete twenty years ago, Mark," David said quietly, turning his head to look the older man dead in the eye. "Or if he was... someone let him out a very long time ago."
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