by Sam Black
“W-why me?”
“I thought you people knew everything. I tried to reach Sam, my brother, but he left for New Zealand yesterday. He called me yesterday from the Atlanta airport before he left. Then, an hour later, this asshole tried to kill me. Why try and kill me? Sam is the one whose life is always in danger.”
“Y-you talked to S-Sam Abbott? He, he is .” I now knew the CIA was involved. At least Travis was. Why would Travis want to kill Randy, his best friend?
“I have to go, Travis. I’ll call you later.”
“W-Wait, Randy. Stay put until I can .” I hung up the phone.
Chapter 21
SOMEWHERE IN TENNESSEE
I took five hundred dollars from Randy’s wallet and put it in my wallet. I stuck his wallet in my pants. Randy and I could pass for twins, even though I’m ten years older. I grabbed some much-needed food and jammed it into my mouth. I took a long, hot shower. Randy was a little smaller than me, but since I’d lost weight, I could fit into his clothes. I packed a small suitcase, threw a few sundries in and headed for the blue Impala. I opened the hood and spotted a disconnected plug wire. I placed the wire on the spark plug, hit the starter and the big engine roared to life. My gas gauge bounced on empty.
Stopping at a Shell station, I filled the tank with premium gas. Disguising my voice, I called the police from a pay phone and let them know about Randy. I headed for the Impala before the cops could ask any questions.
Driving north on Interstate 75, I spotted blue lights in my rearview mirror. The State police car gained on me. At least, I figured it was a State Patrol car. I slowed down to seventy; the speed limit posted seventy-five. I’d been doing eighty when I spotted him. “Shit!” The siren screams became louder. The State police car shot by me; my eyes looked straight ahead. My heart left my throat.
I didn’t know where to go or what to do, but I needed to get out of Georgia. The Tennessee State line lay some twenty miles ahead. Jen stayed in my mind every mile, along with my employees, and now, Randy.
At ten miles past Knoxville, Tennessee, old blue registered empty. I pulled into another Shell station to fill her up. I checked the oil; it was clean and on full. I grabbed some snacks and a large bottle of water, paid cash, and headed for old blue.
A young, tall, slender girl, wearing sunglasses, leaned against my car. She wore tight, very tight, jeans, and a loose-fitting blouse. Her shortcut, brown hair looked like she had combed it with her index finger. She stood maybe six feet tall. She had a bag hanging on her shoulder. A suitcase and another small grocery bag were lying by her feet. I squinted as I approached her. She never moved, but showed me a soft smile.
“May I help you?” I got a whiff of her cheap perfume as I got within ten feet of her. She sure smelled better than the old lady with the dog.
“I need a ride.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Where are you going?” She had a Georgia accent.
I pointed north. “I’m going that way, too,” she answered. I saw desperation on her unblemished face.
“Do you have any ID on you?” No way am I taking a minor out of state. She did look older than eighteen, however.
She unzipped her purse and got a driver’s license out, handing it to me. I reached for it and saw it was issued from the State of Georgia: She was twenty-five; her height was 5 feet, 11 inches; and she weighed one-hundred-thirty eight pounds. She lived, or was running away from, Macon, Georgia. Her picture and the person standing in front of me was definitely the same person: Cheryl R. Hanley; hair color, brunette; eyes, hazel.
Handing it back to her, I told her to get in, hoping I wasn’t making a mistake, but I needed some company. I hadn’t spoken to anyone, except Travis, since that awful day when Jen had disappeared. The other three I tried to forget.
We were only three miles from the Shell station when she spoke. “So, what’s your name?”
“My lips froze when I heard her question, but I blurted out, “Sam.”
She reached her long arm across the front seat and our hands touched. “My name is Cheryl. I guess you already knew that.” Our hands parted. Her hands were soft and they sent a chill through me. “You must work hard for a living. Your hands are really calloused and rough.”
I looked at my sore, bruised, calloused, scarred hands and answered, without looking at her, “Yeah, I’ve worked real hard. W-what do you do?”
“I’m a licensed massage therapist. I’ve been doing it for four years now.”
It remained quiet for several miles. I wanted to tell her everything. The furrows across her young forehead told me she lived under a lot of stress.
I could see from the corner of my eye she wanted to ask me, or tell me, something. Another mile went by before she spoke again. “Sam, you don’t really do physical labor for a living. I’ve been around too many bodies over the last four years. You had an office job, or you were in sales. You don’t talk like a laborer.” Her eyes stayed focused on me.
“So, how can you be so sure? My hands are laborer’s hands.” I looked at my hands again.
“Parts of them are hard, while other parts are soft. Your hair is dyed. Your eyes tell me you’re running from someone or something.” I touched my whiskers with my right hand. “Your nose looks like it may have been recently broken. You’re wearing an expensive shirt and driving a beat-up car. Your eyes are red. Have you had a lot of horror come your way?”
Wow! This gal knows me too well. I tried to think of what to tell her. I spotted a scenic view sign and turned my signal on, slowing as I approached the asphalt road. I parked old blue and said, “I need to stretch my legs.” I got out of the car and walked around, trying to clear my head. I’m afraid. First, if I tell her what happened, she won’t believe me; second, she might tell the police, if she did believe me; third, she is only twenty-five; fourth, she would be the only person who knew except me; and fifth, I might just go to pieces. I pondered for several minutes. My back was to old blue when I heard her voice. “You need to get it off your chest. There isn’t anyone here except you and me. Come over here and tell me what’s troubling you.”
I looked back at her. My legs all of a sudden became weak, and I started moving toward a wooden bench. I sat down hard. My heart was about to unload all the fear, hate, sorrow and unanswered questions that were making my head hurt.
She sat down beside me, placing her hand on my shoulder. The tears ran down my cheeks a second later. “I’m here to listen, Sam. I’m a good listener. I promise it won’t go any further than right here.”
I unloaded my guts to an unknown, young girl, who probably had enough problems of her own. I told my story in ten minutes, with my crying taking up three minutes. She comforted me during those three minutes of sobbing. I needed the touch, the attention, and the caring. I stood and walked away, taking in deep breaths of Kentucky air. My lungs expanded and my head cleared somewhat during my two minute walk. I turned to walk back to her and she stood right in front of me, her arms extended. I walked right into them. She hugged me and wept. I found myself holding her tighter. Her loins pressed against mine. “Cheryl, Cheryl, you need to talk to me. I will try and help. We-we cancan maybe help one another.”
She nodded and we slowly walked back to the wooden bench. Sitting there, I took her hand in mine and she began: “Sam, Sam I’m a good person. I was brought up as a Southern Baptist. I’ve wanted to be a massage therapist ever since high school. I think I was just going into my senior year.” The tears were flowing from her hazel eyes.
“I worked for a health spa in Macon for two years, ‘The Touch of Class’. I made really good money. I worked very hard and my clients loved me. I made enough money to start my own massage business. I called it: ‘Magic Fingers Massage’. My business started booming.” Her eyes became filled with tears again.
“This past March, a prominent gentleman from Macon, Herby Woody Saunders, came to me and wanted me to give him a massage.” She broke down and I held her for severa
l minutes.
She wiped her tears away with her palms and continued, “All my clients, male or female, leave their underwear on, except the women remove their bras. This Saunders guy wanted more than a massage.” She made two fists and beat on her thighs. The tears poured from her eyes. Her body became rigid.
“He left quickly and everything seemed okay for several months. It was this past August when I got a letter from the city of Macon. It informed me that my business would have to be shut down in the next thirty days due to too many massage parlors in the city. My place had been pulled from a so-called list of all the parlors in the city.” She put her head in her hands, not speaking another word for several minutes.
“I got an attorney and he informed me I would never win the case. If Herby is behind it, which he was, he had more political pull than any man in Macon. The city shut down my business on the exact date they informed me it would be.” She stood, arms folded across her breasts. “My clients wanted me to go to another town. They said they would drive thirty miles if they had to.” Cheryl sat with her head tilted down and her hands clasped tightly together.
“I found a cute house to rent down near Fort Valley. I notified all my clients and they promised me they would travel to my new place. Well, everything was going great until one day last week. I get a letter from the County informing me that massage parlors are not allowed in Peach County. I had gotten my permit from the County before I opened. Herby put a stop to it. I was livid.” She stood, again, and kicked some stones with her tennis shoes.
The rage in Cheryl’s eyes told the rest of the story.
“He came after me. He wanted to have oral sex.” She bawled, on the brink of becoming hysterical, without a tear.
A few minutes later, we both got back in the car and drove away, heading to some place unknown. Cheryl rode with her eyes shut and her hands clenched tight. She had left her car with a farmer. She paid him $50.00 to hide the car for at least a week. He promised he’d never tell the damn police a thing. He had had a run in with them several years ago. She hitched a ride to the gas station, where she had leaned against old blue.
Chapter 22
SLEEPING TOGETHER
Stopping in Covington, Kentucky, we fueled old blue and grabbed some much-needed food at a Perkins restaurant. The time: 8:00 p.m. When we walked into the restaurant, two State Patrol officers were sitting in a booth. My body stiffened and Cheryl’s eyes widened with fear. One of the officers looked at us with real concern. At least, I thought so. Maybe it was Cheryl they were looking at. She had a great body. We were seated by a middle-aged lady, who gave us our menus and took our drink order. I ordered a Sprite and Cheryl asked for a diet Seven-Up. Our appetites went from starved to not real hungry in two minutes.
We stared at the menus, while keeping an eye on the officers. We didn’t get anymore looks from the State Police. I had a tuna sandwich on whole wheat toast and a cup of vegetable soup. Cheryl had a chef salad, with house dressing on the side. I managed to eat all my food, but Cheryl only picked at hers.
Walking out to the car, I asked, “Do you want to get a room and get an early start in the morning?” She shot back a look with “yes” spelled all over it. Though, it took her several seconds before she nodded. I cranked up old blue and headed down the street to a Holiday Inn Express.
We were getting out of the car when Cheryl spoke, in a rather soft voice, “I don’t want to sleep alone. Could you get a room with two beds?” I nodded and went inside to the lobby. I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Stanley; address, Louisville, Ga. The young lady behind the counter gave me a key to Room 248.
I got my backpack and Randy’s suitcase from the back seat, while Cheryl reached for her purse and other bags. We took the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hallway to Room 248. I slid the plastic card into the slot and pushed down on the handle. When the door opened, I hit the light switch and a large king bed stared at us. “I-I asked for two queen beds. I-I’ll…”
She touched my arm with her long fingers and whispered, “This is okay.”
My knees began to buckle. I laid my suitcase on the floor and tossed the backpack on the bed. I turned on the TV. I wanted to know what the news had to say about SAWWS. I hadn’t heard a word since that awful day. The people who kidnapped Jen did something to the four radios in the house and the satellite dish. The radio in old blue didn’t work. The nine o’clock news was only minutes away from broadcasting.
“Good evening! We have the latest on the SAWWS Inc. investigation. We will go directly to John Andrews in Augusta, Georgia.”
“This is John Andrews, coming to you live from the main entrance of the FBI office in Augusta. We have just learned that a body of a woman, who is believed to be Jennifer Abbott, has been pulled from Oconee Lake.” My body froze. Jen snapped into my view and my heart rose to my throat, cutting off the air to my lungs. I gasped. “Oconee Lake is located between Atlanta and Augusta. The FBI got a tip from a person who was fishing on the lake and spotted a woman’s shoe. The same style shoe was purchased by Mrs. Abbott at Nordstrom’s Department Store in Atlanta three weeks ago. It appeared her body had been in the water for over two days. She wore purple Capri pants. DNA samples will be available in two weeks, according to the FBI.” I felt light- headed. I thought I’d pass out. Cheryl applied a cold wash cloth to the back of my neck. I sucked in some needed air.
“The FBI has not given us any more information on the employees, who are still missing from SAWWS. Of the forty-three security men that protected SAWWS, thirty have been located and found to have been brutally murdered. The FBI has not given us any information as to who is behind all the murders. The two pilots who were employees of SAWWS were never found.” I tried to get off the bed, but my legs wouldn’t let me. I wanted to hit something.
“The families of all the employees are banding together and getting petitions signed to send to the President of the United States. They want answers and want to know why the government is so slow in responding to this tragic event. According to some of the families of these missing people, our government has not spoken to them since this massacre occurred, except to ask if they have heard from them. The families of those who were murdered can’t believe Sam Abbott has anything to do with the disappearance of his employees.” I broke into a sweat. Cheryl reapplied the cold towel to my head and neck.
“The remainder of the employees who worked at SAWWS haven’t been located. Some rumors have been floating around. There are tunnels, which were used during the Civil War, in the area of SAWWS Inc. The FBI has yet to dig in the area. The FBI hasn’t said whether or not any search was done inside of SAWWS. Everything, according to the FBI, seemed to be in order. The Abbott home sits on five-hundred acres—the same five hundred acres SAWWS Inc sits on. We’ve been informed everything is intact.” My tuna sandwich and soup moved up to my throat.
“The Abbotts, who have been married for ten years, were scheduled to go to New Zealand for twenty one days. They were to leave the day all the employees disappeared.” I covered my mouth to keep my supper down. “Sam Abbott, the president and owner of SAWWS, is still missing.” My supper wound up in a waste paper basket next to the TV. Cheryl got me a cup of water.
“Sam Abbott’s brother, Randy, who lives just North of Atlanta, was found murdered in his home yesterday. There were fresh fingerprints belonging to Sam Abbott in the home. The FBI has issued an all points bulletin for Sam Abbott.”
“The Abbotts’ bank accounts, along with SAWWS Inc. accounts, were all emptied the day of the disappearance.”
“What!” I managed to say in a soft tone.
“The FBI is asking if anyone knows or has seen Sam Abbott to please call them immediately. A five million dollar reward has been offered for any information leading to his arrest. This is John Andrews in Augusta, Georgia.”
“We now have the latest on the murder of Herby Woody Saunders, the one time leader of the Democratic Party, from the State of Georgia. Herby Saunders is belie
ved to have been murdered by Cheryl Hanley, a massage therapist. The former clients of Cheryl Hanley have come forward and said that Herby Saunders had stalked Miss Hanley for several months before his death. They also stated her other parlor in Macon had been shut down by Mr. Saunders’ political pull, as a result of her refusing to have sex with him. He also attempted to put her out of business in Peach County, Georgia, for the same reason.” Cheryl shed some tears—the tears coming from emotion, emotion from hearing her clients believed in her.
I flipped the off button on the remote and the TV went black instantly. I buried my head in my hands and let the hostility enter my body. Memories of the past ten years shot through my head like a cannon.
Chapter 23
NEW ZEALAND—ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER
David Holloway, the financier of SAWWS Inc., sent me to New Zealand to see how they controlled their pollution problem. He had paid for the whole trip and I spent ten days researching and visiting their geo thermo plants. David sensed I needed some time away and knew I wouldn’t get another vacation for at least a couple of years.
On day five of my ten-day trip, while sitting in Sid’s Deli in Taupo, New Zealand, reading some literature I had acquired from the geo thermo plants, I lifted my eyes from the facts and figures lying in front of me. I rubbed my tired eyes and blinked away the sting. My belly growled a tune of hunger.
The doorway to Sid’s Deli came to life. In walked a beautiful lady, with short dark hair, dressed in purple Capris and a white blouse. With her left hand, she reached for her dark sunglasses and lifted them from her face. She stuck an elbow of her dark glasses in between her lustrous, full, red lips. Her eyes met mine and they stayed on me, or at least I thought they were on me. She stopped for maybe thirty seconds; our eyes never blinked. The elbow dropped from her parted, wet lips.
My heart raced and my mouth became dry. I felt a stir in my loins. From what I could see, her body looked almost perfect. I cut a small grin, bringing a sudden smile to her unblemished face. Now my loins began to really ache. The deli only had six tables and all were occupied. They had four outside tables and three of them were full.