by W.H. Harrod
Howard forced his mind to focus on the serious matter at hand and leave the good or bad details of his former life as Howard Douglas until another time—perhaps some quiet day in the future when he stopped running for his life. In front of him lay miles of interstate, and for the next ten miles, his escape route took him through the capital of the state of Illinois. He focused on his driving to keep from getting caught speeding or driving inattentively. The last thing he needed was to get a ticket for Joseph Right on the first day of his resurrected life.
He left everything he owned back in Harmony, except, the photograph of he and Whitney and the single page adoption information denial form given to him by the stranger. From now on he answered only to the name, Joseph D. Right. Howard Douglas, if his luck held and he stayed smart, must never again be heard from. Everything to begin his new life had awaited him back at the metal barn outside of Harmony: a Missouri driver’s license, a Social Security card, and a Missouri license plate for a two-year-old Chevrolet registered to Joseph A. Right. He even provided his new persona with a credit card.
Just shy of 1 a.m., he estimated another six to seven hours to reach the Springfield area and his rented trailer home. He based this projection on his earlier trips to Missouri. Once there, much unfinished business awaited his personal attention over the next couple of days. The way things looked, he figured to be in Lawrence, Kansas, by no later than four days from now. But if something did come up to delay him, he had no reason to worry. He hadn’t another person to answer to now. The substantial sums of cash stolen from the cartel guaranteed that.
But he doubted that sitting around doing nothing for the rest of his life fit his personality. As Joseph Right, there must be something for him to do in Kansas to be of help to a community. One thing for sure though, he wouldn’t be providing a gleaming résumé that related to his previous work in the field of real estate development and management. That part of his life stayed with Howard Douglas.
Finding some kind of job to keep him busy was secondary. He chose to come to Lawrence for one reason—to see his son. At this time, no other reason justified him staying alive, if not to ensure the well being of his and Whitney’s child. He didn’t intend to interfere unless the child’s welfare became an issue. If this couple that adopted his son provided the child with a safe and caring environment, he intended to stay out of the picture. As much as he relished the idea of being able to take the child and devote his life to caring for him, he realized it wasn’t the right thing to do. Looking over his shoulder for the cartel for as long as he lived necessitated it being done this way. Those people weren’t simply a modern day version of the stereotypical Mexican banditos. This highly professional and ruthless criminal organization never quit. They would look for him until they have a positively identified corpse lying in front of them. A lot of their money disappeared, and so had he.
One more time Howard reminded himself to pay attention to the highway. The last metro area was behind him and nothing but open road appeared ahead, all the way to St. Louis, Missouri. Except for the big rigs that ran the road at this late hour of the night, the road belonged to him. Originally, he considered driving the back roads all the way, but after thinking about it, he reasoned an out-of-state car traveling the back roads appeared more conspicuous to the local lawmen.
For the moment, he allowed his thoughts to return to his son. The easiest part of his whole scheme turned out to be locating his son. As Joseph Right, he contacted a private investigation firm in Springfield, Missouri. He gave them the basic information he received from the stranger, and they did the rest. An adoption agency located in northeast Kansas operated a pipeline between Kansas and north Texas. Several more Texas born children at this very moment, hopefully, enjoyed new lives as adopted children in the Lawrence area. He now knew the names of the adoptive parents, their address in Lawrence, what they did for a living, their religious and political affiliations, their driving records, and most importantly, that neither of them had been in trouble with the law. They were squeaky clean, thankfully.
Rolling through the night oblivious to the miles and the minutes ticking by, Howard drifted back in time to when he and Whitney shared a life together filled with so much love. He reflected on his good fortune to have found such a wonderful person. Albeit small consolation now, he had to admit that once his life had been wonderful. If by a freak accident of nature life permitted him to go back in time, only one place came to mind, back to when he and Whitney first met, before Richard ever came along. He would willingly give up every tomorrow for a thousand years for the chance to be with Whitney again for that same brief, but miraculous, romp through those sunny days of their youth.
As usual, his thoughts eventually turned to those individuals and actions that destroyed his small piece of heaven. He still directed the greatest part of his hatred towards Richard Whiting, even after seeing him dead. Never in his entire existence had Howard ever met such an unapologetic scoundrel. The man had no shame, no remorse for any of his despicable actions. After Whitney’s suicide, he never wasted one minute being remorseful. He had to know he owned primary responsibility for the annihilation of this sweet person’s disposition, her optimistic outlook on life, and, ultimately, her suicide. But, in typical Richard fashion, he didn’t even find the time to attend the funeral. She became history, and other opportunities knocked at his door.
The cartel came next in line, but Howard had a hard time hating a faceless mass, which is what the cartel represented. He knew he’d gotten back at them in the only way that made a difference to them. He stole their money. You could kill a dozen of them and it wouldn’t be looked upon nearly as bad as when you take their money, and he stole a whole lot of their money. What he didn’t steal, he told the FBI where to find. No longer did he feel any compulsion to exact revenge from that quarter.
Finally, if Richard was the primary object of his hatred, someone else remained the object of his anger—himself. In his heart, he knew the responsibility for opening the gates for these barbarians in the first place, was with him. Absent his stupid actions with the young woman in Mexico, none of this could have happened. Therefore, he, too, deserved much of the blame for Whitney’s suicide. Metaphorically speaking, he may not have fired the gun, but he pointed out the target. In the end, he deserved no more mercy then Richard or the cartel.
This thought often crossed his mind. Why should I go on living now that Richard is dead and the cartel hurt where it matters? Why don’t I pull over now and run a hose from the exhaust to the passenger compartment and be done with it? It was an attractive idea, but an idea whose time must wait because he had to watch over a small boy in Kansas. He would not fail again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE