Jake's Burn

by Randy Rawls

  My eyes zeroed in on the word we. Did that mean I’d angered more than one killer? As my head throbbed, I wondered what they would have done if they weren’t gentle. As usual, I didn’t have a clue. I sniffed the paper, realizing paper sniffing was getting to be a bad habit. The whole scene was getting weirder, and I wished the bad guy would enlarge his vocabulary, or show himself, or both. I supposed I owed Joey an apology. There was someone out there who did not understand what a wonderful person I am. I’d have to remember to tell Terri.

  I limped around the room without touching anything, but there was nothing else to find. After satisfying myself I hadn’t missed anything obvious, I walked to the vanity and checked myself again to make sure I wasn’t bleeding. Nope, still nothing but a nasty lump turning dark. I put another cold compress on it figuring I’d have a beauty of a shiner by morning.

  I closely observed the toggle on the zipper of my shaving kit. Yep, it had been moved. I checked for the hair I always leave under the toggle. It was gone.

  I learned the hard way during an early case that it was smart to leave booby traps so I could tell if anyone searched my room. In that case, I lost notes and photographs that it took me two weeks to assemble. It was only a straying husband but, without proof, I collected no fee from the upset wife. She had wanted hard evidence. The worst part was I had no idea who stole the material or when it happened. All I knew for sure was the notes and photographs weren’t there when I was ready to deliver them. She had not been thrilled with my explanation and let me know in infinite detail.

  After that, I began to leave the toggle on the zipper of my shaving kit in the same position each time, pointing toward the right front of the bag. In addition, I always left a hair under the toggle. I supposed it wouldn’t be long before I’d have to find a trick other than the hair—I didn’t have that many hairs to spare any more.

  After satisfying myself that someone had gone through my shaving kit, I checked everywhere. All I found were two more of my booby traps disturbed. I had to assume everything had been searched. Whoever was here was good. Except for the booby traps and the lump on my head, there was no evidence anyone had been in the room. Fortunately, I didn’t have anything in the room that would give away my case. But unfortunately, the reason I didn’t was because I still hadn’t made the case.

  Even my Beretta was where I’d left it, hanging in its shoulder holster in the closet. I slipped into the rig and checked to make sure the Beretta was still loaded and would slide out easily. I felt confident, one more door locked on an empty barn. I vowed we’d never be separated again.

  I walked to the door and opened it, expecting the worst. There was nothing there. I stepped through the doorway, slid along the outside wall and carefully looked around, afraid my friend might be waiting for me. Fear ran rampant through my body. Nothing. The parking lot was quiet, no one moved. There were only a few cars—a bad night for business—and no one was near any of them.

  As my fear subsided, I turned back to the door and took out my penlight. I examined the lock on the door and all around the bolt. My visitor had either had a key or he knew how to slip a lock without leaving a trace. After examining the doorframe a bit more, I realized it wasn’t a cracker box, but it wasn’t a vault door either. A decent burglar could pop the lock. Guess that’s why they have chains on the inside of motel doors.

  I went inside to the only chair and remembered the object I’d picked up and stuck in my pocket. It was a book of matches from the Down Home Bar. The cover carried the motto, The Down Home is just like down home. Cute. I flipped the cover up and saw a series of numbers written on the inside—a telephone number, but whose? I checked the matchbook carefully for other information but found nothing except, Smokers are welcome at the Down Home. I could vouch for the integrity of that bit of advertising.

  I picked up the phone receiver and dialed the number. One of those awful recordings kicked in. You know the one—a mechanical imitation of a female talking through her nose, “I’m sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  I thought for a moment. How long had the matchbook been under the edge of the bed? I supposed it could have been there when I checked in. Judging from the dust bunnies I’d felt, it could have been there for years. After all, I hadn’t checked the room for suspicious items. Then again, maybe my intruder dropped it.

  I took the phone again and dialed the operator. When she answered, I said, “Miss, I’m trying to reach 555-7654, but I get a recording that says it’s disconnected. Can you help me?”

  “Just a moment, sir. I’ll check.” Telephone operators are one of the few groups left in our society where you can depend on courtesy. A moment later, she was back on the line, “I’m sorry, sir. That number is not in service. May I help you with anything else?”

  I decided a shot in the dark wouldn’t hurt. “Can you tell me who last had the number?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give out that information.”

  Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I thanked her and hung up with a smile. My next call was to Tom Roberts. “Can you track the number 555-7654 for me? I need to know who had it last. It’s out of service now, in Cisco’s area code.”

  “No challenge, Ace. Give me thirty seconds. You can time me, starting now.”

  Twenty seconds later, he was back on the line. “Sheila Adams. It went out of service—”

  “I can guess when. Thanks, Tom. I owe you another one.”

  Now that was interesting—a book of matches from the Down Home with Sheila’s number under my bed. If my intruder dropped it, it pointed toward his involvement with Sheila. It also lessened the possibility that Sheila’s lawyer was the target. On the other hand, with Sheila’s reputation, she may have used this room with the guy who dropped the matches. I looked at the bed and got a strange feeling in my stomach.

  I thought about it, and decided to go with the theory the intruder dropped the matchbook. That ruled out Maddie Millener as the primary target in the arson-murder case. Worse, it ruled in that the intruder was keeping a close watch on me. While I hadn’t tried to hide, it bothered me that I was under surveillance. It was time to make his job more difficult.

  I re-read the note. There was no longer any doubt about who’d been the target at Lake Cisco. I shuddered as a cold chill ran up my spine. What was that cliché? Like someone walking on your grave. I hoped it would remain a cliché. I turned off the lights and walked to the motel office. The clerk let me know with her look that my request was wacky but she gave me a different room—after a fresh imprint of my credit card.

  I returned to my room and moved my stuff to 101, right beside the office. It had to be the safest room in the motel. The clerk could see the entrance door from her desk.

  I shifted the Chrysler to the parking slot in front of room 150 on the other side of the parking lot. I’d decided not to advertise which room I occupied.

  I went to my new room and, without turning on the lights, sat in the chair. If my visitor were out there, I didn’t wish to present a target. The shoulder holster was uncomfortable so I laid the Beretta on the table beside me, within close reach. I leaned my head back, willing myself to sort through what I knew, trying to find a single thread that ran through everything.

  What I had wasn’t much. Two naked women killed, and a house burned down around them. One woman a lawyer and the other an ex-wife who played the field. A guy killed in my car. A brick with a note thrown against my door. My motel room searched and a book of matches left behind with Sheila’s phone number. Somebody attacking me when I entered my room. If I assumed Sonny was an accidental victim, three out of four pointed toward my unpopularity with someone. But who?

  I toyed with those four facts like a dog worrying a bone, but nothing came out—nothing except the nagging feeling I knew more than I realized.

  EIGHTEEN

  The night passed. I know, because I was awake most of it—or it seemed that way. I spent the night cycling a
mong being scared, jumping at every noise, dreaming of Terri, adding up the meager evidence I’d collected, wishing I had a boring book on police procedure to read myself to sleep, and catnapping.

  Catnapping. Never have understood why they call it catnapping. Whenever Striker and Sweeper are catnapping, they’re snoring. I’m sure I didn’t make it to snoring during the first two-thirds of that night.

  At some point, my mind relaxed enough to allow me to sleep. My best guess is it was between five and five-thirty. I say that because I’m sure I hadn’t slept more than an hour when I was awakened by the beep, beep, beep of my pager. I rolled over, picked it up, and looked at the number. As the numbers sank into my sleep-deadened brain, my eyes snapped open. The phone number was mine—my number in North Dallas.

  I grabbed the phone and dialed. On the second ring, a female voice answered, “Hello, Mr. Edwards’s house.”

  I recognized the voice as Ms. Jacobs, my cat-sitter. “Ms. Jacobs, this is Ace. Did you page me?”

  She began a torrent of conversation that I was unable to interrupt, although I tried. As she poured out her story, I attempted to assimilate the meat of it. It came out in this order. She was terribly sorry to bother me because she was sure I was in the midst of solving an important case. The front door was open when the police got there. She’d gone home and made fresh kitty treats with more of the secret ingredient. The police had looked all over but didn’t find anyone, and she had come over as soon as Mr. Harbinger called. Striker might have run away through the open front door. Mr. Harbinger said he saw someone sneaking around. Sweeper was fine and loved her high powered kitty treats. She couldn’t find Striker. Mr. Harbinger called her at three o’clock in the morning.

  I thanked her and told her I was headed for Dallas right then. I dressed as fast as I could and made sure I put on my shoulder holster with Beretta included. I cursed as I raced across the quadrangle to get to my car—too far from my room, then laid rubber as I tore out of the parking lot.

  As I drove, I tried to find order in Ms. Jacobs story. As best I could put it together, Mr. Harbinger, my nosy neighbor who lives across the street, saw something that caused him to call the police. He then called Ms. Jacobs. He’s a bachelor, she’s a widow, and I’ve always wondered about those two. He called her, or shook her to wake her. I chuckled at that scene. She rushed to my house, arriving about the same time as the police and found the front door open. Striker could not be found. Sweeper was happy with all the extra attention. That’s all I put together from our conversation.

  I was glad Texas speed limits are high and flexible as I sped toward Dallas. I was also relieved there weren’t many big pickups and SUV’s on the road. Between Fort Worth and Dallas, the inevitable happened—a serious accident brought traffic to a near halt. An SUV had run through a small sedan. I reached home at nine o’clock. There were no police, but Ms. Jacobs was out front, waiting for me. After interrogating me about the lump on my head and my black eye, she verified that I had her story right.

  I entered the house, trying not to disturb anything. Sweeper sat at the top of the steps, licking his chops. He’d probably been in Ms. Jacobs’ kitty treats. He rushed to me, and when I picked him up, his motor went into high decibel purring. That lasted about a minute before he decided he’d rewarded me enough and jumped down. He went to my recliner and gave himself a thorough bath.

  I called for Striker and looked in all the standard hiding places—behind the chairs, under the couch, above the kitchen cabinets, and his favorite, buried under the pillow on my bed, usually with his tail sticking out. Nothing—no Striker. I was getting worried. “Sweeper, how can you sit there gnawing at your toes when your brother is missing? Find him, you old sod.”

  Sweeper looked at me, yawned, and went back to biting at his right front foot. Now I knew why humans were superior to cats. We had the ability to care about our friends. Apparently, cats did not.

  Ms. Jacobs and I searched the house, yard and neighborhood, but didn’t find Striker. I sent Ms. Jacobs home. She was driving me nuts with her constant comments on what might have happened to Striker—cars, dogs, catnappers, mean neighborhood kids, poisoned kitty treats left out by diabolical neighbors, and other more gruesome endings.

  After she left, I called the local police to get the official side of the story. They told me essentially the same as Ms. Jacobs. They’d gotten a call, had investigated, found nothing, and left the house in her care. As I thanked the senior officer on the scene and was about to hang up, he said, “Oh, one thing, Mr. Edwards. You shouldn’t leave a can of gas like that. It’s dangerous, you know?”

  “What can of gas?”

  “The one between the hedge and the front of your house. There’s a five gallon gas can setting there full of gas. I suggest you put it somewhere away from your habitat. Much safer.”

  A can of gas? Yes, I pictured something I’d seen when I looked for Striker. Why hadn’t it registered? I must have been more worried than I realized.

  I hung up and rushed out front. There it was—a five gallon can of gas sitting as the policeman had described it. There were two problems. It wasn’t mine, and I hadn’t put it there.

  I called the police again, explained I’d never seen the can before, and they came back to my place. I noted that it looked similar to the ones I’d seen at Sheila’s house. A fingerprint crew checked for prints but found none. They took it away, promising to try to trace it to the owner. I had little hope they’d succeed.

  I thought of Ms. Jacobs. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get her to take care of the boys, excuse me, Sweeper again. I was glad she wasn’t there for the discovery of the can and my conversation with the police.

  The loss of Striker seeped in as the excitement of the morning dissipated. I felt pretty low when I noticed The Dallas Morning News laying at the top of the stairs. Ms. Jacobs must have brought it in. One last idea came to mind. I picked up the newspaper and walked to my recliner. Sweeper was still there working at his right front paw. I picked him up and placed him on the floor as I sat in my chair. He jumped up on the arm of the chair and watched while I noisily opened the paper. I flipped open the sports section, which, as usual, had a headline about the Cowboys.

  I popped the paper twice and tried to do it the third time. I couldn’t because an orange bundle of fur landed in the middle of it. “Sweeper, get out of here, I’m trying to see if Striker will—” I stared at the back of the cat that was contentedly curled in the middle of my paper. No white splotch—Striker.

  Picking him up and staring into his eyes, I said, “Where have you been, young man? Ms. Jacobs is worried sick about you.” There were dust stringers hanging from his whiskers. Were they a clue?

  Striker looked at me, yawned, twisted himself free, jumped down and headed toward Ms. Jacobs’ kitty treats. What could I say, “Hey you, don’t eat those until you explain your absence.” Nah, he’d ignore me.

  I called Ms. Jacobs and told her Striker was safe. She was thrilled and started chattering. It took me a few tactful minutes, but I got her off the phone. I returned to the puzzle of who broke into my house, who left a can full of gas out front, and what stopped him or her from doing whatever he or she intended—probably torching my place. As was becoming routine, there were no solid answers. This case was causing seepage from my container of confidence.

  I walked to my chair. Sweeper was still on the arm, gnawing at his foot. I picked him up and placed him in my lap. He licked me once and went back to his foot. I realized he had been at that paw most of the time I’d been home. I held him and pressed on it.

  “Yow,” he yelled, squirming to get free. I held him and spread his toes again. One of his claws was raggedly broken with blood around the base. When I touched it, Sweeper hissed, something he’d never done before. Well, maybe at the vet, but never at me.

  I stroked and talked to him until he settled down.

  Striker walked in to see what was happening and sat back on his haunches cleaning his face, obviously s
ated on Ms. Jacobs’ kitty treats. He looked at me. “Meow.”

  I returned his look as I continued to stroke Sweeper. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, but I’m not happy with the way you hid from Ms. Jacobs. By the way, where is this secret place of yours? None of us could find you.”

  “Meow,” he replied and ran down the steps into the foyer. So much for conversation with my adopted son.

  I turned my attention back to Sweeper. “Okay, guy. Let me take a look at your nail. You might need medical attention. What the heck did you do to it?”

  “Yow.”

  I spread his claws again to get a better look. Something was caught at the base of the nail. It was red and wrapped tightly. I worked it loose as Sweeper squirmed and fussed at me.

  Striker ran up the stairs from the foyer to see what was happening, but must have found it boring. He went back down.

  I looked at what I had taken from Sweeper’s claw. It was a tiny piece of material, more than a thread but less than a swatch. I stared at it, trying to imagine what it was and how it got there. Finally, I wrote it off to whatever he’d been sharpening his claws on when he broke the nail.

  As soon as I removed the tiny piece of material, Sweeper calmed down and curled in my lap.

  “You seem to be okay. Good, that saves us a trip to the vet.” When I said vet, Sweeper gave me a look that needed no interpretation. He must have been satisfied because he fell asleep. His gentle snoring assured me he was okay.

  I laid my head back and closed my eyes, again letting my mind float, hoping it might land somewhere useful. It felt great after getting so little sleep the previous night. I sat there with my mind as relaxed as it had been in days, perhaps weeks, when my subconscious was invaded by the pitter-patter of little feet, specifically the racing back and forth of those little feet.