The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  But by then he would no longer be in this truck. He would be elsewhere. And when they grilled Jack Towner, he would deny any accusations and say something to the effect that the only way anybody could have escaped on his truck without him knowing it was if they’d hidden under the chassis like Robert De Niro had done in the remake of Cape Fear. (It had been Stanley’s suggestion that Towner use this defense and who knows, they may even buy that load of crap.)

  Stanley ran his hands through his damp, sweaty hair and resisted the temptation to vacate the hot box he was hiding in. He’d told himself to wait until the truck had stopped before giving up his cover and he planned on holding to it. He hoped the next five minutes went by quickly.

  He went over his plan in his head as he waited, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. The last thing he needed was to come this far and suddenly have some sort of senior moment. He wondered what his blood pressure was now and hoped he didn’t have a stroke before this was all over. He hated to admit it but he was not in the same shape he’d been before his eight years of incarceration. He’d lost most of his muscle tone, grown gray hair and acquired plenty of worry lines. He basically felt like some tired old codger. That would all change though, thank God. Soon he’d be like new again.

  He felt the truck take a hard left. They had to be on Hyatt Road now. Just a couple more minutes. He half expected to hear the wail of sirens any minute now.

  Suddenly the truck slowed down to a stop. He heard footsteps in the gravel and within seconds the cargo door opened.

  “Let’s go!” Towner shouted. “Before they find us here!”

  Stanley fought his way out of the box and scrambled over a pallet of boxes, pulling the tall box along. Towner’s face revealed utter terror.

  “I’m on it, Jack—don’t forget what I told you to say when they catch up to you, okay?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Now fucking get lost, man!”

  Stanley hopped off the truck, cursing the box that had nearly tripped him up. As he ran into the woods that ran along the road, he looked back and saw Towner get back into his truck. Towner gunned the engine, turned the truck around and headed back toward the highway.

  After running several yards, Stanley stopped long enough to tear the box into pieces. He had promised Towner he would dispose of the box so they would never find the incriminating evidence. Without the box, they would have no substantial proof that Stanley had ever set foot on the truck or that Towner had aided Stanley in his escape.

  As he sprinted through the wooded area, Stanley felt confident that Towner’s truck would provide the decoy he needed to put some distance between him and his eventual pursuers. Every minute that passed without the sound of sirens brought him that much closer to making a clean escape.

  In another few minutes he approached the area he was looking for. There was a large drainage ditch running through the woods that was only a hundred yards from where the car would be parked. He recognized the area immediately from seeing it on the satellite map he had spent hours studying in his jail cell while waiting for the trial.

  Was that a siren he just heard? He pricked his ears without losing ground and could swear he heard it from behind him. In another moment he was certain. They were coming!

  Just then he saw a patch of blue through the trees. He nearly whooped for joy when he saw the nondescript Ford Focus parked along a dirt road. Ted Stillman had come through!

  He ran over to the car, reached in under the fender and felt the key hidden on top of the right front wheel, unlocked the door and hopped in. He started the engine, put it into gear and spun out. Keeping his eyes on the road, he reached over and grabbed the black nylon jacket lying on the passenger seat. Alternately removing his hands from the steering wheel he managed to slip the jacket over his orange prison jumpsuit, effectively hiding the ugly thing from other drivers’ view.

  As much as he wanted to take a moment to make sure there was a package in the trunk, he knew that would be a mistake—he couldn’t spare the time. He needed to put as many miles between here and his destination pronto. One thing going in his favor was that it was dusk and very soon night would fall. He couldn’t have timed his escape any better.

  He recalled the Google Earth satellite image and continued heading west as fast as he could without throwing the Ford’s entire front end out of alignment on the pothole laden road. Five minutes later he reached the intersection of County Road 17 and made a right hand turn heading east toward the Pennsylvania border. His plan was to get the hell out of Ohio before the search for him went viral, so to speak. He should reach the interstate at Youngstown in about forty-five minutes.

  He got up to fifty-five miles an hour and held it there. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over for speeding. The car ran well and was very clean. He wondered where Ted Stillman had procured it and who he’d hired to deliver it. He could only hope it was somebody who didn’t ask questions and knew how to keep his mouth shut. He also hoped he’d left the package. If it wasn’t there, Stanley would be in a big fix.

  He hadn’t driven more than a couple more miles before realizing he couldn’t keep himself guessing any longer—the suspense was killing him. Besides, it wouldn’t take more than thirty seconds, he figured. He pulled on to the first side road he came to and parked along the berm. He ran around to the rear of the Focus, pressed the trunk release button on the key fob and peeked inside. There he saw a large trash bag, its handles tied together. He hastily untied the bag and saw two smaller bags cinched at the top. Feeling time slipping by he grabbed the trash bag, shut the trunk and hopped back inside. He threw the bag on the passenger side, turned around and got back on County Road 17.

  Once he was up to speed he engaged the cruise control, reached over and pulled out one of the smaller bags. Inside were a pay as you go cell phone, a change of clothes, a small nylon travel bag and a road map. He set it all aside and pulled out the other bag. He could tell by the feel that it was the cash he’d told Stillman to include—mostly fifties and twenties. There should be six grand in there.

  Stanley breathed in and exhaled deeply, the first breath of free air he’d taken since stepping into Jack Towner’s delivery truck. He had actually pulled it off! It was a surreal feeling going from a caged rat to a free bird in less than an hour’s time. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he was still in his cell dreaming. But this was as real as it gets.

  Stanley Jenkins was a free man again.

  Chapter 6

  Sam began his Monday morning with the cable TV installer. After he was finally connected he checked his emails before calling in to the Smithtown Observer. His boss, George McNary, was already griping about his taking the day off so Sam decided to touch base before the asshole had a total conniption. It was times like this Sam wished he could sell enough books to retire. He couldn’t think of anything that would make him happier. At seventy-three years old, George McNary should have retired long ago, but the old goat just kept on plodding along, making everybody else at the paper miserable. He and McNary had been at each other’s throats for as long as he could remember.

  “What’s up, George?” he asked in a monotone.

  “Plenty, Middleton, but I suppose you’re too busy to do anything about it. It’s Monday morning for chrissakes! What makes you think you can take time off on the paper’s busiest day?”

  “Whoa, chill out, boss! I told Marge well in advance to let everybody know I needed this day off to get moved into my new house. I even told her that if we had an emergency not to hesitate to let me know and I would be there. But I wouldn’t call covering the grand opening of a new Walmart an emergency situation unless I’m missing something.”

  “That’s not the point—and how many times have I told you not to call me ‘boss?’ You know that Herb Jackson is on vacation so we’re already short of reporters this week. I would think that the least you could do is be responsible enough to show up for work in light of this.”

  Sam wondered if McNary even r
ealized how much he sounded like Clark Kent’s boss every time he reprimanded him for calling him “boss.” Nah, he thought, the guy was an idiot.

  “Like I said, I’ll be more than happy to sacrifice my personal day off if a crisis truly arises and you need me. In the meantime, I’ll be here trying to get settled into my new place. Have a nice day, George.”

  “One of these days, Sam—”

  Sam hung up. “Yeah, whatever, you lame asshole.”

  Refusing to let McNary sour his mood, Sam decided to stick with his vow and take a morning jog to help clear his head. He had more or less finished getting settled into the place the night before so there wasn’t much more to do. Although he’d had a few too many beers with Roger yesterday, he’d taken a short nap after his detective friend left, eaten, chugged down a pot of coffee and forced himself into action. As he worked, he couldn’t quit thinking of the stolen tricycle.

  He was still thinking about it now.

  It was surprisingly cold outside so he wore a lined jacket and took along a travel mug of hot coffee. He knew he’d be healthier taking bottled water instead but he wasn’t quite ready to take that leap yet. It was a cloudy day and as he jogged across his yard to the path, he could almost swear it smelled like snow. It was certainly cold enough, he thought, as he noticed the expelled jets of his breath in the damp, chilly air. There was a thick layer of frost on the ground and the woods seemed remarkably still as he cut up to the main path. He had mistakenly thought at mid-morning it would be teeming with animal life. Apparently he’d already missed the action.

  The stolen tricycle came to mind yet again and his greatest fear was that he would never know who did it. He had done all he could think of to find the mystery person yesterday and he wasn’t putting much stock in security cameras helping either. Sam hated to admit it but he may very well never see or hear from the person again.

  He continued jogging until he approached the same fallen tree he’d stopped at the day before. He went over and sat down on it. As he took a sip of coffee he noticed somebody in the distance running toward him. It was a woman wearing a bright blue and white jogging suit. She was moving at a good clip and her steady stride suggested that she was a seasoned runner. As she drew closer, he saw that her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and that she wore a wool knit headband. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties.

  “Hi!” she hollered, slowing down to a gait.

  “Hello!” Sam replied. It looked like she was going to run past him until she slowed down and came over to where he was sitting.

  “Kinda chilly.” She smiled, a bit out of breath. “Mind if I rest a minute?”

  “Not at all,” Sam replied. “And you’re right—it looks like it might even snow.”

  She extended a hand. “Maisy Fleming.”

  Sam shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. Sam Middleton.”

  “I know—you’re with the Observer, right?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Well, your picture is always included with your editorials for one thing.”

  “Oh, right,” Sam said, feeling stupid. “Forgot about that.”

  “Gotta say, I don’t know how you get away with your, should I say, liberal point of view. I mean, the Observer is such a conservative paper.”

  “You’re telling me. I think the only reason they let me write that column is because it makes them look unbiased in the public eye. Which, as everybody in town knows, is hardly the case.”

  “No offense, but if there was a less right-wing paper in town, I wouldn’t take the Observer.”

  “No offense taken, believe me. When I first got on at the paper, I was hoping things might change with time. But that was a joke. Like this town, nothing seems to change except for the unemployment numbers, which keep rising.”

  “Horrible, isn’t it? I mean, this town has so much potential if only somebody with a brain could manage it for a change. It’s so beautiful here and we’re in a wonderful geographic location for all kinds of commerce. And now there’s even the new castings plant. Yet nothing seems to ever move forward. It’s frustrating.”

  “It is. Makes me wonder why I even stay here. So what about you, Maisy?”

  “Well, I’m a divorced real estate agent. That’s two points against me,” she joked. “Can’t keep a man and can’t sell a house!”

  Sam laughed along but became serious. “Not so sure that being divorced is such a bad thing. That is unless it wasn’t your idea, which I have a feeling isn’t the case.”

  He knew as soon as he spoke that he appeared to be prying. Now it was too late to take it back. Sometimes, you are such an ass, Sam!

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’re right, it was my idea to get a divorce. My ex was a horrible, controlling person. I don’t miss him one iota and leaving him was the best thing I ever did.”

  “Do you have any kids?”

  “Yes, one. A daughter—Vanessa. She’s in her first year of college.”

  “That’s great. I have a daughter, too.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?” Sam inquired.

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but I’m well aware of your wife’s passing and all of the awful things your family’s been through. But I don’t suppose you’re too surprised to hear that after all of the publicity regarding Marsha Bradley’s murder.”

  “No need to apologize, and you’re right. There probably isn’t a soul in this county that doesn’t know the story.”

  “I’ll bet you wish it would just go away, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do. But that’s not the way things go unfortunately and if anybody realizes the power of the media it’s me. My greatest regret is that the son of a bitch managed to escape prison and they still haven’t found him. I can’t believe he’s out there somewhere, doing who knows what, while so many people are still left picking up the pieces. I know I’m feeling sorry for myself, but that nutcase has upended a lot of lives. And it pisses me off he’s not where he should be.”

  “God, I remember when the Bradley woman was murdered that this whole town was on edge. Then once it got out that her killer was believed to be targeting Smithtown women, I was afraid to even go out the door. And now he’s still out there, as you said, doing God only knows what.”

  “It’s scary,” Sam said.

  “Mind if I have a sip of that?” she asked, nodding toward his travel mug.

  “No, please—help yourself.”

  She smiled and Sam noticed how strikingly beautiful she was as she took a sip of his coffee. Maisy Fleming had big round blue eyes, full, pouty lips and dimples that made her look younger than she was. He figured she had to be close to forty to have a child in college.

  “Thanks,” she said, handing Sam the mug. “That hit the spot.”

  “So do you jog up here often?” Sam asked.

  “Lately I have. One day I was heading up Fulton Street and noticed a pair of runners cut up Maynard’s driveway. I decided to follow them just to see where they were going and all of a sudden they cut up a path that goes all the way up to the top of the hill. Once I got up here and saw how quiet and beautiful it was, I started jogging here pretty regularly.”

  “So do you live nearby?”

  She nodded. “Down on the boulevard. What about you?”

  “I live up here.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You’re the one who bought the Maynard house?”

  “Yup.”

  “I can’t believe it! I knew it was being auctioned off but never heard who’d bought it. You are one lucky guy!”

  “Gotta say, it’s one of the best things that’s happened lately.”

  “I’ve stared up at that place for as long as I can remember, thinking how wonderful it must be living all the way on the top of the hill. I wondered what it looked like up close but figured I would never know because of the private driveway. So what’s it like?”

  “It’s a little dated inside but the view outside
more than makes up for it. Would you like to come see it?”

  “I’d love to!”

  “Great, c’mon!”

  Sam stood and took off, wondering if Maisy would come up beside him or follow behind. As he hoped, she promptly flanked him and matched his pace stride for stride.

  “Have you been jogging long?” she asked.

  “Nope, is it that obvious?” he chuckled.

  “I didn’t mean it that way! I meant have you been at it very long today?”

  “Oh, not really. It’s a fairly short distance to the house—maybe ten minutes. This is actually only my second day jogging, so I’m a real novice.”

  “Well, you’re doing fine—I would never have known.”

  They fell silent, simply taking in the quiet beauty. Sam’s mind was in overdrive, feeling upbeat and anxious at the same time. When he’d left the house the last thing he’d expected to be doing was teaming up with some beautiful jogger. He was floored by how easy Maisy Fleming was to talk to and how quickly they’d gone from virtual strangers to jogging partners in the matter of a few minutes. Would wonders never cease?

  As they approached his property he slowed down. “Almost there.”

  They entered the backyard and Maisy let out a gasp. “Oh my God—it’s wonderful!”

  As they came around to the front of the house, she stopped and stared out at the bird’s eye view of Smithtown Ohio.

  “This is so incredibly beautiful. You don’t get this view on the hill top since it’s obstructed by all the trees. It’s like you have your very own balcony overlooking the town.”

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it? How a town as messed up as ours is suddenly transformed into a jewel in the rough from up here. I feel blessed to have gotten this house, believe me.”