“Do you know what kind of car it was?” I asked.
“Sure do. Blue. And boy, Roger loved those tires. Now my nephew Roger, he wasn’t a fan of cars. He was a truck kind of guy. He had a black truck. Black with silver. It was sharp. His momma, that’s my sister, she got it when Roger died. My, you should have seen his funeral. It was big. Biggest I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled, thanked the older woman, and walked away quickly before I heard any more stories about the Rogers. Either of them. The bumper sticker had to come from Highland High, my old high school, but who drove a blue car? Looking at my watch again, I wondered where Rachel was. She should have been here by now. It had been an hour and a half. I returned to Tim’s house and called the motel. No answer in our room. I called Scott to see if Rachel had decided to stay there and work.
“Last time I saw her, she was with you.”
I felt my mouth go dry. “She didn’t come back an hour ago?”
“Nope.”
A prickling sensation ran along the back of my neck. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. “Can you come and get me?”
“Sure, what’s up?” Scott asked.
“She’s driving the rental, and I’m stranded at Tim’s.”
“Maybe she’s just running late.”
“She was coming to see you, Scott. You were the destination.” I heard the tinny sound of fear in my voice.
“Maybe she went back to the motel for something.”
“I called. No answer.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
After I hung up, a sickening revelation hit. Maybe the person who killed Tim knew what Rachel and I had been doing. Maybe the SUV was in a ditch somewhere.
“Oh please, God, don’t let Rachel get hurt on my account. Keep her safe.” I uttered the prayer in a terrified voice, not the confident one I reserved for Sunday mornings when my Sunday school class was listening. My hands shook as I sank down on the floor to wait for Scott.
CHAPTER TWELVE
May 3, 1980
Crane was a good little berg to watch people. One hundred and ninety-six people, or so the sign said. Too close to Blooming-ton for anyone to think a stranger was an oddity. Especially a young one—just another student looking for cheap housing away from Indiana University. The sky was bright blue, the wind brisk, and no sign of rain. The breeze felt good against the skin. It skittered the trash from one yard to the next and down Main Street. Torn, crushed Styrofoam cups, cigarette butts, an occasional soda can, food wrappers, and scraps of paper all raced toward some unseen finish line. Springtime in Indiana made a person feel alive, vibrant, and powerful. It was definitely going to be a good day.
The Haskells lived in an unpretentious house across the street from the post office. A smallish, red-brick home with green shutters and a one-car, oversized garage. The funny thing was, it actually had a white-picket fence around the property. A picket fence—how corny. Irritating, really. Such a smug little life. Well, nothing lasted forever, and neither would this. In fact, if things went according to plan, today would be the end of the happy little home era.
It was the perfect day, really. Graduation day—the culmination of hopes and dreams. Time for precious little Craig to start a new life, or so the Haskells thought. Time for the Haskells to receive their reward for being such model citizens.
The streets were quiet in Crane, especially in this small block of houses. An occasional bird squawked or fluttered by, but there was no traffic to speak of and little kids weren’t out and about yet. It was only eight-thirty in the morning, and graduation was scheduled for ten-thirty at IU. It was a short thirty-minute drive from here, and on IN-45 there was a wonderful little spot, where if pushed hard enough, a car might just flip several times before coming to rest. Of course, getting into the garage and cutting the seat belts of the ’78 Cutlass had been an act of genius. By the time the Haskells discovered the vandalism, they’d be in a hurry to get to the graduation and wouldn’t take the time to fix the belts.
It took a lot of patience waiting for the perfect opportunity to accomplish my objectives, but it allowed time to study human nature and meditate on the surroundings. For instance, the Haskells’ neighbor to the right appeared to be an alcoholic. He had come out of his house in long shorts, no shirt, and flip-flops. He picked up his daily paper—maybe the Herald-Times or The Indianapolis Star. Then with an attempt at casualness, he looked up and down the street before strolling over to the Ford 250 parked in his driveway. He opened the passenger door with an air of nonchalance, pulled out a small flask from the glove compartment, took a swig, replaced the cap, and put the container back in the truck. Then he slowly strolled back into the house.
The muffled sound of a dog barking came from several blocks away. A skinny squirrel scrambled down the Haskells’ walk hoping, it appeared, to find a source of food. Apparently, winter had been hard for squirrels.
The neighbor came back out of his house, bent down in front of his flower bed, and pulled a few microscopic weeds before indifferently checking out an invisible scratch on his pickup. Evidently, he needed to open the door for a more thorough check and opened the glove box. Once again, he retrieved the flask, and this time he took a longer swig, seemingly unconcerned about who was watching.
The door to the Haskells’ garage creaked open. The powder-blue Cutlass backed out onto the street. Mr. Haskell was a solid man with graying hair, a square face, and thick-lensed, black glasses. His brown suit jacket was a nice contrast against the blue interior of the car.
Mrs. Haskell was a small woman in her sixties with mousy, brown-and-gray hair caught up in a bun on the back of her head. Her eyes were close set, and she almost had one eyebrow. Would have, if she hadn’t used a mustache trimmer to shave a small streak from the bridge of her nose up her forehead. She held the damaged seat belt in her hand, and her mouth moved a mile a minute. Her purple-flowered, polyester dress clashed with the Cutlass’s interior.
It would be an easy task to follow them. They would have no reason to be suspicious of a U-Haul truck behind them. They’d be too concerned about making the graduation with no seat belts to be aware of their surroundings. Like most people caught up in their small, pathetic lives, they had no time to pay attention to what was going on around them. They probably had no idea their neighbor was an alcoholic or that the squirrels had a rough winter. Taking candy from a baby couldn’t have been easier.
To be on the safe side, the truck stayed a nice distance behind the Haskells until they left US-23. It was a short ten miles until the spot of contact. The early May tulips and crocuses offered a nice diversion from the pulsating excitement of the planned kill.
Only one problem with the plan. It wasn’t foolproof. First, the weather wasn’t cooperating. Not a cloud in sight. Rain would’ve made the roads slick. Still, it would look like an accident at first blush, so getting away should be no problem. But if the Haskells survived, it would be harder to make a second run at them later. Varying the methods of homicide was the key to not getting caught or connected to a murder. Most serial killers felt compelled to leave a signature behind. Now that was stupid. Pretty much asking to get caught. Of course, you can’t really call the first two deaths serial killings, but there would be more until a certain person learned a valuable lesson—a lesson of a lifetime.
Renting the U-Haul had been a snap. A quick check of the fake driver’s license satisfied the manager. The cash on the counter impressed the dealer more than questioning the idea that a young kid might not actually be who he claimed he was. Of course, the onehundred-dollar bill to hire the kid to rent the U-Haul and ramps was money well spent. The kid delivered the twenty-four foot truck, took his money, and left the fake ID on the seat of the U-Haul cab. It took some maneuvering to ramp the trailer alone and drive a small sedan into it, but the effort would pay off in the long run.
The Haskells drove Sunday-sightseeing slow. No more than fifty miles per hour
according to the U-Haul’s speedometer. Time to pick up speed. The sharp turn up ahead would provide the angle needed for a successful hit. The U-Haul’s engine shifted with a satisfying roar. No cars coming from either direction. The truck pulled out into the left lane—just another anxious driver trying to get somewhere on time. With a swift jerk of the wheel to the right, the grill of the truck rammed into the side of the Cutlass. The crunching of metal on metal, the screams, the shattering of glass—all music to the ears.
The Cutlass flipped over into the ditch and should have kept on flipping, although now was not the time to look. It took strength and concentration to wrench the U-Haul back onto the left-hand side of the road and continue on until taking a side road. The dirt road looked more like an overgrown path, but with the U-Haul’s clearance it was possible to maneuver. Branches scratched the side of the moving van and whacked the windshield. Still not a problem. It wouldn’t be returned to the dealer. With a lurch, the U-Haul stopped at a nice wide spot hidden from highway view.
It was time to open the back of the U-Haul, pull down the ramps, get in the car, and drive to the graduation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
With sirens blaring and lights flashing, Scott skidded to a halt in front of Tim’s house. I locked the door and ran to the customized, wheel-chair-accessible van. I wondered what Martha must be thinking right about now. No matter how nosy you might not be, sirens and lights always aroused curiosity.
“Thanks a lot, buddy.” I climbed in the passenger side. “I appreciate the speed, but could you have made a noisier entrance?”
“I don’t think so, but I could try,” he said with a grin.
“I thought cops could only use sirens in emergencies?”
“True enough. You wanna make a citizen’s arrest?” He grinned even wider.
I hit his arm.
“Ow! I wanted to get here as fast as possible. You’re the one who acted like it was an emergency.”
“Not funny, Scott. I’m scared something’s happened to her.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“How can you be sure? Have you seen her?”
“No, but I think you might be forgetting one teensy, weensy detail about Rachel. She’s an alcoholic. Why would you let her go off on her own if you wanted her sober for tonight?”
“You think she’s drinking?” That hadn’t occurred to me until now.
“My guess? She’s on a real bender, and the sooner we find her, the sooner we can sober her up. She’s probably at the motel with her cell turned off.”
“Can’t be. She was fine. We just had lunch together.”
“Then where is she?” Scott challenged.
“She seemed happy. Interested in solving this case.”
“Well then, Ms. Rose-Colored Glasses, you tell me.”
“She never mentioned anything about wishing she had a drink.” I tried not to sound defensive.
“Yes, I can imagine that she would let you, a pastor’s wife, know her deepest desires about drinking.”
Although his sarcasm was laced with friendly humor, I felt the reproach slice clean through. “Come on, Scott, I was her friend long before I was a pastor’s wife.”
Scott shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’m going to the motel first.”
Sure enough, when we pulled into the parking lot, the Ford Escape was parked in a stall near the side entrance.
“Go on ahead, Jamie. I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t have time to acknowledge that leaving a wheelchair-bound friend on his own so I could rescue an alcoholic for purely self-centered motives seared my pastor’s wife conscience. I entered the room to see Rachel sitting cross-legged on the bed, back propped against the headboard, face wet with tears, and a Bud Light in her hand. Three empties lay on the bed. Panic rose like bile in my throat. Just what I—we—didn’t need!
“Rache, what are you doing? We have work to do. We have our meeting tonight. You can’t be drunk. What are you thinking?” The sentences came out short and choppy in a rush of air.
Rachel brushed the tears off her face with the palm of her hand. Her eyes danced with anger. “This is all so easy for you, isn’t it?”
“What’s easy?”
“This running around playing detective. Like you don’t have a care in the world.” Her words weren’t slurred, just harsh.
“I thought you were doing okay.” That was lame.
“You thought wrong!”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried about you. I was afraid something happened to you when you didn’t answer the phone.” I know I sounded defensive.
“Something did happen to me. Hell happened to me.”
“I know, Rache, but I thought you were doing good.” I softened the tone of my voice.
“Good? You thought because you dragged me down here and let me play amateur detective that I was doing good?” Rachel took a big swig of beer. “Just like that, huh?”
I climbed on the bed and sat next to her. “I don’t know what to say.” And I meant it. So I just sat.
“I hate this town. I hate every memory I’ve ever had here. Nothing was good for me here. Nothing! I feel like I’m suffocating, and you’re playing little Miss Nancy Drew like you don’t have a care in the world. Anderson was hell for me, Jamie, and I’m sorry if that offends your sensibilities, but it was hell.” The last words came out as a quiet, desperate plea for understanding rather than rage. Tears raced down her face—silent accusations.
I felt hopeless, inadequate, as if nothing I could say or do would help. Week after week in the little town of Great Falls, Montana, people came to me for support. I prayed with them, counseled them, and loved them. Now I felt like it was all smoke and mirrors. There were no pat answers for real problems. None at all.
“Why did you make me come here?” Her question was rhetorical. She didn’t expect an answer.
Which was good. I had none. I managed a weak, “I’m sorry.”
A knock sounded on the door. I got up to let Scott in. He rolled over to the bed, looked around the room, and said, “Three-and-a-half beers in an hour. Not bad.”
“Don’t bust my chops. You ain’t no saint,” Rachel said.
“What I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted was, do you remember the times in high school when we could do a whole lot better?” He grinned and then reached over and took her hand. “I’m a good listener. If you need to talk, I’m here.”
Rachel’s pitiful smile didn’t reach her eyes. In the quietest of voices, like a five-year-old whispering, she started talking. “I met him there the day Ms. Stewart disappeared.”
Scott shot me a questioning glance. I shrugged. It was Rachel’s story.
“Met who?” Scott asked.
I reached over and put my hand on Scott’s shoulder, silencing him.
“After class he told me that if I didn’t meet him at the park and make him happy, he would see to it that I didn’t graduate. I didn’t know what else to do, so after school that day, I went to the park. He was late. I had almost decided to leave when he got there.” Rachel took a deep breath.
Scott clenched his jaws hard.
“When Jamie and I went to the park today, I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run and run and run and never stop, and the whole time, I just kept talking and smiling like everything was okay. But everything wasn’t okay. It’ll never be okay. I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t!” She punched the mattress with her fist.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why had I insisted on dragging Rachel into this mess? Dredging up all these old, horrific memories. I had no way of knowing about the park, but I’m not sure ignorance is an excuse. Why hadn’t I realized what this would do to her?
Scott’s eyes flashed. No self-recriminations for him. Between clenched teeth, he said, “Who was it, Rachel? Who did this to you?”
“What’s it matter now? It’s over,” she sobbed. “I just want to leave this town and never come back. I nev
er should have come here.”
“Listen, Rache, did it ever occur to you that Ms. Stewart was in the park and saw what happened to you, and that’s why she lost her life?” I said it as gently as possible, but I wanted Rachel to know that she needed to quit protecting the creep who had destroyed her life.
“I never saw her. I swear I didn’t, or I would have told someone. I can’t believe that it’s my fault she’s dead.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. But please tell Scott who it was.”
Rachel hesitated for a moment, and then looking down with averted eyes, she whispered, “It was Mr. House. Phillip House.” Then as if the mere act of saying his name was like taking a swig of ipecac syrup, Rachel raced to the bathroom and vomited.
Scott’s fingers tightened around the arms of his wheelchair.
I followed her into the bathroom and put a hand on her heaving back. Rachel wretched for at least three minutes and then came up gasping for air. With a cool, damp washcloth, I wiped her face. I put some paste on a toothbrush and handed it to her. Not just so she could get the sour taste out of her mouth, but to give her something to do that felt normal. Her eyes were puffy, her nose bright red, and her skin blotchy. I thought she’d never looked more beautiful. And I never wanted to kill another human being as much as I wanted to kill Mr. House. Not exactly a Christian sentiment, but I didn’t feel all that Christian right at the moment.
Rachel spoke quietly at first, her voice getting stronger as she talked. “When does it end? When do I stop feeling so dirty? I want to purge the memory of Mr. House out of my system.”
She walked back into the room with a glimmer of hope . . . or determination—I wasn’t sure which—in her eyes. “Scott, what do I need to do? What do you need from me?”
“Do you think he could have been the one who killed Ms. Stewart?”
“Duh. He is a scumbag.” My voice was as loud as it was mad. “Ms. Stewart must have seen what happened and confronted him and he killed her. It wasn’t long after we graduated that he got involved in politics, and now he’s the Speaker of the House.”
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