The Watchman

by V. B. Tenery

  I accepted the dinner invitation but admitted I’d arrived by cab. She would probably give me tofu and rabbit food, but I could live with it for one meal. I’ve always had a weakness for older women who try to mother me.

  After we finished the coffee, Goldie left the room. She returned with a gift box filled with photographs. “These weren’t as hard to find as they might have been.” She set the carton down and looked at me, eyes wide, puzzled. “Why do you keep popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box every time I come into the room? That must be hard on your arm.”

  I grinned. “It’s a lifelong habit I can’t seem to shake. My grandmother taught me to stand whenever a lady is standing.”

  She gave me a wicked grin. “Who told you I was a lady?”

  I returned the smile. “I always assume the positive.”

  She motioned for me to sit. “It’s charmingly gallant, and it makes me feel kind of special.” She glanced down at my hand. “How come a sweet man like you isn’t married?”

  I shrugged. “A personal choice I made some time ago. My job can be dangerous, and it would be hard for a wife and kids to cope with the fluctuations in my income. Its steak one week and tacos the next.”

  While the meal cooked, Goldie placed the box on the sofa between us. She pulled out photos of Abigail and Joey, giving details of time and place on various shots, reliving the memories. There was a regal loveliness about Abigail Armstrong. I understood why her beauty captivated people.

  Happily, the evening meal turned out to be great. Grilled salmon steak, rather than tofu. Over the salad, Goldie spoke of the past with Abigail. “Abby spent many nights in the emergency room from beatings she received at Ben’s hand. Even worse was the damage he did to her self-esteem, making her think the abuse was her fault.” My hostess sat silent for a moment. “It’s a pity that women like Abby continue to suffer. Giving domestic abuse national attention would certainly help.”

  “The real issue is authorities aren’t notified until it’s too late. And when they are notified, unfortunately, the cases often fall through bureaucratic cracks.”

  Her eyes reflected an inner struggle, perhaps between good manners and conviction. Conviction won. Goldie dropped her napkin on the table. “Yeah, it seems Abby fell through the cracks. Her husband goes to prison and dies, yet he still manages to get to her from the grave. That makes me mad.”

  “Whoa,” I said, unable to believe she’d taken offense at my comment. “I agree with you. It’s obscene that a woman can take all the precautions and still wind up dead. I just don’t see how federal intervention would have stopped it. The government breaks more social programs than it fixes.”

  A bright pink flush covered her cheeks. “Well, somebody needs to protect abuse victims.”

  I nodded as I picked at the salad. “You’re totally right, and I think you have the answer and just haven’t seen it.”

  She didn’t speak right away. Instead she busied herself removing the salad plates. Shortly she returned with the salmon and grilled vegetables, and placed the food in front of me.

  She took a seat and snapped her napkin onto her lap.

  I raised both hands. “What I mean is that you stepped in to help Abby. That’s what everyone needs to do. When we see or suspect domestic violence, report it. Don’t just turn a blind eye to the situation.”

  She nodded and a grin teased the corners of her mouth. She stared at me for a full minute. “You have way too much charm for my own good.”

  We finished the meal in amicable silence. I stood and looked into her eyes. “Are we still good here?”

  Had I been a jerk? To make amends, I helped carry the dishes into the kitchen. “The fish was great. Normally I find salmon too dry, but yours was moist and the flavor was excellent.”

  She smiled. “It’s the magic of my herb marinade.”

  “You did good, Goldie, and it was probably good for my health. My system may go into shock.”

  Ripples of laughter filled the kitchen. “You can thank me when you’re ninety-two.”

  While she put away the leftovers, I noticed a metal cross, enclosed in a silver shadowbox on the wall. “That looks old.”

  She walked over to my side. “It’s very old, from the First Crusade, somewhere around 1095-1099 A.D.

  I drew closer to the ancient artifact. Delicate engravings on the metal looked worn, but still impressive. “Are you a Christian?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

  “Perhaps we need to talk about that sometime. It’s better to live life as though there is a God, than to live life as though there isn’t...and die and discover otherwise.”

  Goldie shrugged and then hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the airport and save you cab fare.”

  On the flight home, haunting images filled my mind of a beautiful woman and her freckle-faced son―the sorrow they shared in a life all too short. My own memories surfaced, and the wind whispered a reminder.

  It seemed to me, God sometimes called the best of us home early.

  14

  Jake’s Cabin, Pine Lake

  “You have one message, and two saved messages,” my voicemail system announced in a serene voice. “First message, 9:02 am”

  The call was from Amos Horne, his voice strained and almost unrecognizable. “I need to see you right away. Something important has come up. Meet me at the summer place, the usual time.”

  I cleared the message and glanced at my watch. One o’clock. I’d have to hurry. The summer place was his boat slip on the opposite side of the lake from Jake’s cabin, and the usual time, two o’clock. Backing the Jeep from the driveway, I turned north toward the dam.

  Summer weekends, Amos and I met there and took out The Cherokee, his small cabin cruiser. Amos fished. I cooked.

  Patience had never come easy for me. Always been too antsy to wait for fish to bite. I got exasperated and wanted to shoot them, but Amos said it would be unsportsmanlike.

  

  Pine Lake

  My friend paced the parking lot behind his truck as I pulled into a slot beside him. He wore a knitted stars and stripes cap pulled down low over his ears.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  We climbed into the warmth of Amos’s truck. The smell of onions and fried food hit me before I could close the door. Soon, a foggy mist covered the windows caused by the warmth inside and the extreme cold outside. I explained my clash with the thug.

  “Did you get a good look at the bum?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t recognize him. With my current circumstances, I can’t go to headquarters and look at mug shots. My neighbor has probably looked through your files by now. The thug pistol-whipped him.” I unzipped my jacket. “What’s so important you couldn’t relay the message over the phone?”

  “My office ran a check on your cell phone and credit card records. Thought you’d want to know. There’s also another problem. Because it’s a kidnapping, the fibbees are on the case now. They met with the chief today. Scuttlebutt says they have your name as well as Rachel London’s. You know what this means, Noah. These people can find you. They have technology the Hebron police don’t even suspect.”

  “When did all this come down?”

  “Ten minutes before I left you the message.”

  “I haven’t used the credit cards anywhere near the ranch. I assumed your guys had already checked my phone and cards. What took them so long?”

  “My buddies working on this didn’t want to fink on one of their own. When the pressure came down, they had to.”

  I issued a long breath. “When they checked my phone records, they must have found your number listed. You’d better come up with a cover story. Be careful how you call me. I don’t want to pull you any further into this than I already have.”

  He produced two greasy paper bags from the back seat and threw one to me. He’d picked up burgers on the way. “We should be OK…for now. I called your unlisted cell from a pay phone.
When you didn’t answer, I took a chance on calling the office number, also from the booth. I tried to disguise my voice.” He swallowed a bit of his burger. “What will you do?”

  “I’ll have to try to survive with limited cash flow or figure some way to get a card that can’t be traced to me. Armstrong might help. He’s something of a maverick. He’s on the up and up, but he likes to take risks. How about you? Will you be OK?”

  Amos nodded. “I should be. A few of the guys in the department know we’re friends, but I don’t expect them to squeal on me. They don’t think you’d ever harm a kid.” A lopsided grin curled his lips. “When you worked in the precinct the guys called you ‘the pope.’ Plus, they know London by deed and reputation. Add the fact there’s a lot of jealousy between the locals and the federal boys—I figure they’ll give me a pass as long as it doesn’t jeopardize their jobs.”

  Amos pulled a thermos from under the seat and poured two cups of coffee, crumpled his bag and tossed it on the floorboard. He reached over and helped himself to my fries. “Any chance you can close this case before we get those adjoining cells?”

  “After he received Cody and Rachel’s X-rays, Jake drew up the divorce papers, citing abuse. But he’ll make sure he has every jot and tittle in place before he files the case. I can’t say when it’ll happen, and the Feds will probably have his phone tapped and check out his cabin soon. I’ll need somewhere to stay. I’ll get to Jake and fill him in as soon as I can. The FBI involvement adds a new sense of urgency Jake needs to know about.”

  “Can you find a safe house somewhere?”

  I nodded. “The possibility the authorities would find out about Jake’s cabin has always existed, and I’ve given moving some thought. There’s a retreat my church uses for summer camp. It’s in the mountains and deserted this time of year. The only way in or out is by snowmobile. The facilities are rustic, but it has plumbing and electricity. I can manage there for a while.”

  “You can use my snow rig. Its old, but it still covers the ground pretty fast. Just tell me where to meet you.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but Jake has all the equipment I could ever want. I’ll just borrow his.” I extended my hand to Amos. “Thanks, buddy, for the warning.”

  He swallowed hard. “Don’t mention it.”

  I finished off the burger and handed the bag to Amos. He tossed it on the floor with his. I shook my head. “Man, that’s just wrong.”

  He only shrugged.

  Climbing out of the truck, I called, “Merry Christmas.”

  His face went blank for a moment. “Oh yeah, Christmas is Monday. I forgot since the kids aren’t here...”

  Amos’s wife left him four years ago and took their two little boys back to South Carolina. Women not born here or in a similar climate could never seem to get use to the cold and the absence of shopping malls. Too bad. Amos missed those boys.

  On the way back to Jake’s cabin, I called Armstrong. He invited me to dinner at his place. It seemed a good idea. I needed to talk to him, and two lonely bachelors wouldn’t have to spend an evening alone.

  The drive to the cabin resurrected memories of holidays spent with my mother, flooding my mind with visual images. They weren’t warm recollections.

  My stepfather used the Christmas season as an excuse to get drunk. Not that he needed an excuse.

  While he caroused, my mother gathered Tommy and me into her bed and sang to us in her sweet soprano voice a melody I’ve never heard since, perhaps something she wrote. I could only remember the chorus.

  Holy Child this vow I give you,

  As I offer up my praise,

  To remember Christ is Christmas,

  Every Christmas Day.

  The sight of Jake’s cabin jerked me back into the moment. Getting packed was the first thing to tick off my to-do list. Heath, the caretaker, insisted on helping me stow the snowmobile in the Jeep. My arm had almost healed, but I accepted the offer.

  I was going to miss Junior. Not.

  Gear packed, I drove to Armstrong’s place.

  

  Lincoln Armstrong’s Home

  A handsome oriental butler opened the door. The foyer looked larger than my first floor, and the flowerpot in the center, overflowing with poinsettias, covered more square feet than Amos’s boat. The houseboy ushered me through the reception area into the library.

  Armstrong sat in a green leather chair by a generous blaze in the hearth. He stood and greeted me with a firm handshake. “Come on in by the fire. That wind is brutal. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Gregory is preparing something special tonight—roast duck, I believe. I promise it will be worth the wait. May I get you a drink?”

  I passed on the drink and took the hot apple cider he offered as a substitute, sat in a second chair in front of the fire, and glanced up at the large oil painting above the fireplace. I recognized the woman as Abigail Armstrong from her pictures. Indeed, she had been beautiful.

  Armstrong’s gaze followed mine to the portrait, and he smiled. “I never tire of looking at her. I had that done right after we were married.”

  I nodded. “I met a friend of your wife’s in San Francisco yesterday. She gave me some old photos Abigail left behind. I’ll turn the box over to you when I’ve finished going through them.”

  He nodded and swirled the golden liquid in a crystal brandy snifter. I related the things Goldie told me about Abigail’s abuse and Marshall’s indirect responsibility for the boy’s death. Armstrong’s eyes hardened like steel. He gripped the arm of his chair, then rose abruptly and stood in front of the fire. After a minute, he turned to me, his face smooth and composed—a look he no doubt used in board meetings.

  “Lincoln, I need a favor. I have a client who’s involved in a situation very similar to Abby’s. She has an abusive husband and a son. She wants to get out of the marriage before he kills both of them. He’s filed kidnapping charges against her and had her arrested once. The warrant also includes me. The husband is a judge, which makes the circumstances more tenuous. I understand the FBI also may be looking for both of us. They can find me through my credit cards. I need a card that can’t be traced back to me.”

  His expression didn’t change. He had a good poker face. “And I should help you because...?”

  “I’ll be more than glad to give you the title to my home as collateral. Of course, any charges I make unrelated to your case, I’ll repay. Or you can deduct the amount from my salary, provided you still want to retain me.”

  “What makes you think I won’t tell the FBI where to find you?”

  I shrugged and grinned. “A professional hunch.”

  He chuckled and returned to his seat. “Your name came up over dinner last night at the club. The mayor let it drop that the police were looking for you. He appeared quite agitated; asked if I’d hired you. I said no, of course, told him I’d wanted to handle the investigation within my firm. I’m glad you’re being forthright with me. Is this Judge London’s wife, the woman whose picture has been in the news?”

  I nodded. The man didn’t miss much.

  “As I told you when we first met, I checked you out thoroughly before I hired you. Don’t take offense; I do that with everyone I place on my payroll. I don’t like surprises, and it’s a good business practice. You have a reputation for honesty to a fault––taking cases that are more community service projects than lucrative business transactions.” Armstrong shrugged and smiled, a light burning deep in his eyes. “The Hebron police wasted three years of precious time blaming me for Abby’s disappearance and almost succeeded in destroying my reputation. They also caused me three years of misery. You’ll have the card by noon tomorrow. Tell me where to send it.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, stood, and gave him the business card with my fake ID and a post office box number.

  “Let’s eat. I’m hungry.” He patted my shoulder like an indulgent father and led me toward the dining room.

  He was right. The duck exceed
ed my expectations.

  After dinner, we returned to the library with mugs of hot apple cider. I lifted my cup. “To mothers.”

  Melancholy washed over his face briefly before he raised his own mug. “To mothers.”

  

  Bridger Mountain Lodge

  Unloading the snow jet proved easier than anticipated. I pushed it from inside the Jeep with my legs and it landed easily in the foot-deep powder.

  I arrived at the campground before midnight, cold and tired. I hate the cold. My trusty skeleton key opened the lock. A blast of arctic air hit my nostrils as the cabin door creaked open. No need to worry about strangers lurking inside—too frigid to harbor humanity.

  The flashlight beam helped me locate the furnace. I sucked in an anticipatory breath as I flipped the switch. The quiet hum answered a prayer. My guardian angel had come through one more time.

  I found the light switch, and shrugged. Jake’s place, the Trump Towers, the lodge, a cheap motel. Complaining? Well, just a little. But the church had stocked the pantry with staples. A plus I didn’t expect. This I could live with.

  Early the next morning I woke to the trill of my cell phone. A number I didn’t recognize glowed on the tiny screen. Guarded, I answered, “Hello.”

  “I think I have something you want, Adams.”

  The static-filled connection faded in the tree-covered mountains, but I recognized the voice as Hebron’s mayor, Robert Thornton. “How did you get my number?”

  “McKenna,” he said.

  I’d forgotten about giving it to her.

  “Meet me at my boat in an hour. We’ll discuss it there. You know where it is.”

  “Give me two hours. I have a long way to drive.”

  “Fine.” The line went dead.

  Great. I should have published my cell number in the Hebron Herald along with my itinerary. With two rendezvous at the marina in two days, the Feds could just patrol the lake if they really wanted to find me.