by W.H. Harrod
I don’t think I can take too many more nights like these last couple, Terrance forewarned himself while peering through the motel room’s curtains to see if anyone lurked outside waiting to grab him and drag him away to Mexico in the trunk of a cartel vehicle. This kind of stuff happened only to characters in books or bad movies. Not to him.
Nervously looking around the parking lot, he saw nothing unusual. If any of the scruffy looking vehicles parked out in the gravel lot of this low rent, roadside inn belonged to the cartel, they must be running on to hard times themselves.
Terrance went for it. With one swift move, he escaped through the motel room door with all his belongings, closing it quickly behind him. His key in hand, he hurriedly unlocked the Cherokee, got in, started the engine, and took off out of the lot. Back on the road, he headed towards the interstate with not a single vehicle appearing from the front or rear. He felt a sense of relief, maybe the only positive feeling he’d experienced since returning to the motel room from the nearby roadside diner last evening.
Terrance’s paranoia had caught fire when a group of well-dressed Spanish speaking men came into the diner after he’d started on his blue plate special. They sat in a corner booth drinking coffee and talking softly. He suspected they’d tailed him from Illinois after receiving the description of his vehicle from the suspicious-looking motel clerk in Harmony. They probably knew all about him. He didn’t have a single clue as to what to do about it except, of course, his usual first instinct where he jumped up and ran. But run where? Outside into the dark? You know, I’m really going to have to be more pro-active about this alternate escape route idea.
Forced into inactivity again due to the fact he didn’t know what to do, Terrance picked at his food until the suspicious characters got up and left the diner. Terrance followed them to the door to see which way they went and what kind of vehicle they drove. Only after he watched their dark colored SUV head out of the diner parking lot away from the interstate, did he return to his seat. Of course, they wouldn’t want me to see them go back towards the interstate. They’re probably trying to make me think I’m wrong about suspecting who they really are. Yeah right! I’ll fall for that ruse for sure.
Thirty-paranoia-filled minutes later, Terrance sat in his nearby ground floor motel room, door bolted. He’d placed every movable item in the room in front of the door to hinder the cartel thugs’ efforts to burst in and abduct him if he accidentally nodded off. All night long he imagined the worst, fearing someone lurked right outside his door. By the time the sun came up, he felt more exhausted than when he first came into the room the night before.
The once confident, eager, soon to be a full-fledged member of the Society of Renown Investigative Reporters presently raced along the twenty last miles of highway separating him from the sole object of his attention: Mrs. Judith Bidwell. He didn’t intend to go the most direct route, though. He wanted to do everything in his power to make sure no one followed him. The short twenty-mile trip by interstate turned out to be forty-five miles of farm roads and back streets before he arrived in front of Mrs. Bidwell’s home at 7:35 a.m. Thursday morning. He hadn’t bothered to call her, remembering her earlier admonishment regarding talking on the phone about this matter. Nevertheless, he felt confident about her being eager to see him upon his return.
Terrance parked his car in front of Mrs. Bidwell’s house as usual, but instead of jumping out and heading towards the large front porch, he, instead, cased the entire neighborhood thoroughly. Satisfied no suspicious individuals lurked in the vicinity, he exited the vehicle and made for the shelter of the house.
Terrance expected nothing less than the wide awake, officiously polite, elderly woman who answered the door after he rang the old clanging door bell somewhat abusively. He didn’t expect Mrs. Bidwell acting as if he were there to collect for the newspaper bill. He had hoped for a shared level of excitement or at least mild enthusiasm upon seeing him return safely from so arduous a quest. True to form, she stood there quietly as if she were awaiting his feeble attempt to sell her encyclopedias. Wait till she’s heard what I found out. Then she won’t be such a stoic.
“Well good morning, Mr. Butler. I’m somewhat surprised to see you so early in the day. Won’t you come in?”
Terrance, still confused regarding her apparent lack of emotion, gave her a quick look expressing his consternation then bolted past her into the parlor. “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you what I found out,” he blurted out before his hostess had time to join him. “I mean, you’re going to just shhh-er, just not believe it.”
Mrs. Bidwell came into the room and sat down on one of the comfortable old chairs and bid him do likewise. Not until Terrance complied, did she speak again.
“Now, Mr. Butler, why don’t you take a deep breath, calm down, and then tell me what you learned. Better yet, may I get you a cup of coffee? You look as if you’ve had very little sleep,” she said, her voice revealing not a hint of excitement.
This time Terrance readily agreed to accept the steaming hot cup of freshly brewed liquid. He realized until Mrs. Bidwell became fully prepared it served no purpose to begin his story. So he made himself sit quietly while she completed this small chore.
Finally, with the coffee perked and poured, Mrs. Bidwell sat across from him. Terrance held a full cup of coffee and appeared slightly less rattled than when he arrived at the door. He began telling his story. Reining in his emotions, he left nothing out. He told her about going to the library and the troubling matter of the librarian knowing all about the subjects he went there to research. Then he told her about Richard Whiting, the prominent local businessman found brutally murdered at his palatial estate. Next came the part where he read about the missing vice president who turned out to be the Howard Douglas she instructed him to search for. This Howard Douglas turned out to be the Joseph Right in the photograph she had given him earlier. Following this, came the revelation from the FBI that the companies both Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right and Richard Whiting worked for operated as fronts for an international cartel. And one last thing—Howard Douglas had a fiancée by the name of Whitney McClain. She mysteriously left him a couple of years earlier and committed suicide in Dallas, Texas, only a few months before these other things occurred.
Terrance refrained from telling her about his eerie personal experience at Whitney’s grave. He decided, on the spur of the moment, to wait on that. He needed more time to think about it. Likewise, he decided to hold up on exposing any suspicions regarding Howard Douglas being a killer. His newly acquired paranoia of being found out by the Mexican Mafia could also wait. He wanted her two cents worth first. What did she have to say about this unexpected turn of events? Surely, she couldn’t just sit there like a stone as if nothing had changed. Hell! International murderers might be right outside the front door at this very second. This was serious stuff.
“So,” said Terrance as he sat back in the comfortable old sofa, “what’s your take on all this? As far as I’m concerned, we need—”
But she cut him off before he finished. “Mr. Butler, before we go any further with this extremely fascinating report, I want you to tell me whom you came into contact with while you were in Harmony. Don’t leave out a thing. The very first thing we need to know, is did anyone know what you were doing or why you were there? Even more important, if they did—did they follow you home?”
This unexpected interruption caught Terrance by surprise. His paranoia, somewhat abated until now, kicked back into gear. She had thrown a lit match into a can of gas.
“Oh, god, I think I messed up big time,” he confessed. “I tried to be nondescript, but I’m certain that the librarian was on to me. He just kept staring at me while I researched the archives. Everyone in town is familiar with this case. They know exactly what someone is looking for if they request to look at the old newspapers for that period in 1981. Plus, I really blew it at the motel when I checked in with my fake identity and checked out with my real credit card. If anyo
ne, that’s probably the guy who ratted me out. Then just last night, I figured it would be best for me not to go home, so instead, I stopped twenty miles east of here at a small motel and came straight here this morning. While having dinner last night, three professional-looking Spanish-speaking men came in and sat behind me drinking coffee. I still have a real weird feeling about those guys. Considering everything I’ve found out, I’m beginning to think maybe we’re getting in over our heads here. I—”
“I was afraid this might happen,” interjected Mrs. Bidwell. “Do you think anyone followed you here?” Her obvious change in temperament didn’t go unnoticed by Terrance.
The decibel level of Terrance’s voice betrayed his weak assurances. “No, no way. I’m certain of it. I drove only county back roads on my way here. No way did anyone follow me.”
“You’re sure?” asked a doubting Mrs. Bidwell.
“Y-yes, I’m sure,” responded Terrance tentatively.
“But still,” continued Mrs. Bidwell in the same cautious tone of voice, “if they know who you are, it’s only a matter of time until they find out where you’re from and where you live. Correct?”
“Damn! You’re right,” admitted Terrance, outwardly irritated at his ineptness.
“Then what do you think we should do under the circumstances?” asked Mrs. Bidwell.
Terrance had hoped to hear those words. No longer so eager to solve this mystery for the certain boost it might provide to his floundering plans of becoming rich and famous, he needed to look for some other way to get that boost. This plan created too much risk. As for the matter involving the eerie coincidences connecting he and Whitney—that too could wait until later. He now had a new plan to get them out of this mess while yet salvaging some of the story. Now, as he sat across from the landlady who voiced the same degree of concern, he intended to tell her about his idea.
“Mrs. Bidwell,” he began, “as I was about to suggest to you earlier, I’m not so sure we should continue with this investigation. This whole thing is getting way over our heads. I propose we pull back and go forward with the story only to the extent that we know Joseph Right wasn’t who he said he was. We put forth the evidence we have to that point. Namely, the private investigator’s report from Missouri and forget about all this other crazy stuff I found out about in Harmony. I’ll leave your name out of it, ensuring no one will ever know the connection between us, in case anything ever comes up. If we don’t write about the Harmony stuff how would anyone know, other than us, that Joseph Right was Howard Douglas, a suspect in a murder case in Illinois?”
They both sat quietly for a time as Mrs. Bidwell considered his idea. Her expression never changed as she quietly sat sipping her coffee. Terrance, conversely, fidgeted the entire time.
“A very interesting plan, Mr. Butler, I can see that you’ve thought a lot about this. However, may I ask you some questions before we make our decision?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued, “For instance, if you are correct in your assertions that you were more than likely found out in Harmony and they know who you are, then even if they didn’t follow you back here, as you suspect they did, it will not take them long to pick up your trail again and find out where you live, where you work, etc. Am I right?”
“Uh, yes, but—”
Again she cut him off. “If they know all that, and they see that you’ve written an article about a man who lived in this community for over twenty years under an assumed identity, might they not become the least bit suspicious? Even if the story is intended for local readers, who knows when something like this could be picked up nationally? Who knows who will read about this and begin to wonder if there could be any connection to the twenty-year-old Illinois murder? Who knows who will see a picture of the imposter Joseph Right—possibly those same people in Harmony who found out your true name and address? I’m sorry Mr. Butler, but I don’t see how your plan will not ultimately expose us to the same level of danger. Seems to me we become sitting ducks either way, would you not agree, and if they get to you, they will eventually get to me. From what I know about these individuals, that’s a risk I don’t want to take. I’ve been told these cartel members are ruthlessly violent people.”
Mrs. Bidwell stood up. “Let’s get you some fresh coffee,” she said while taking the cup from his hand. “While I’m doing this you can think about the potential ramifications of your pending decision. I am well aware of your reluctance to walk away from this without getting something in return for your effort.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN