Burden of Proof

by DiAnn Mills

  “Is this the first time Willis has bent the law?”

  “Not by a long shot.” Jason grimaced. “Bad pun. None of this is anything to joke about.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone reported him?”

  “Maybe they have.”

  “We should take your story to the FBI now.”

  “No,” Jason said, more than a little irritated with her insistence the FBI could make everything right. His trust in law enforcement had hit rock bottom. “Truth means a lot to me. I don’t have validation of Willis’s latest dealings yet. But I will.” An invisible drill found its place behind his right eye, brought on by stress and no sleep. No surprise there. His meds were in the glove box, but if he took them, his body would require a two-hour nap to chase the headache away. He needed water and something in his stomach before downing the Imitrex. “We have to make a stop. My parents may have information about the woman who took Isabella. Time to purchase burner phones.”

  9

  THE HUM OF TRUCK TIRES normally lulled Jason. The rhythmic sound relaxed him and allowed his mind to wander. Under more pleasant circumstances, he’d turn off the radio and mentally construct his latest building project, adding special touches to personalize the owner’s home or remodeling concept. One of those inspirational moments moved him to design a playhouse for Isabella that mirrored their farmhouse. Once she started walking, he’d construct it.

  But the migraine had zapped creativity from his brain. His thoughts wavered between keeping Isabella protected from Willis and eliminating the false charges. What were the next logical steps, and how could he overcome the overwhelming odds stacked against him like a sapling in the middle of a tornado? The faint whine of tires interfered with his thinking, or perhaps the stress and headache botched his thought process.

  He drove over the Trinity River, sometimes referred to as Dallas’s sewer pipe. Low-lying areas around the river were filled with murky marshes and swamps, home to water moccasins.

  “Are there many snakes out here?” April said.

  “Yes, and gators. I don’t recommend tromping through there. Gators believe in eating trespassers.”

  “Very funny. I’ll be fine as long as I have my gun.” She eyed him. “You’re pale. Jason, are you ill?”

  “I’m okay.”

  He neared State Highway 287 in Kountze, where a Brookshire’s grocery carried what he needed to help eliminate the headache and move his threadbare plan into action. Although Sweet Briar lay twenty miles down the road, without getting something to eat and relief for his migraine, he’d get shot or killed by one of Willis’s men before getting there.

  Jason turned into Brookshire’s parking lot, his head aflame. He scanned the parking lot for police cars. None in sight.

  He reached under his seat and pulled out a nondescript ball cap, different from the one he’d worn in Houston. From his glove box, he grabbed a pair of sunglasses. His shirttail hit the left side of his jeans where he’d tucked April’s gun. Shrugging off his jacket, he spotted a dirty cap in the backseat. He reached for it and slapped it against his knee. “This isn’t much, but I’d like for you to wear it. I’ve got to pick up a few things here, and I need your cooperation. A migraine has hit me hard, and we need phones. You want me to turn myself in, and I will when I have the name and evidence of who murdered Russell.”

  She stared at him with those huge brown eyes, a look of intelligence and beauty. But he needed to remember her negotiation skills meant she’d lie to accomplish her goals.

  “I hope you find the proof. But what if you don’t?” she said.

  “Not a consideration. And when I have it, you’ll receive all the credit and probably a promotion for believing in an innocent man.” He pressed his lips together.

  April blinked. “Thanks for thinking of me, but how can you investigate a murder by yourself?”

  “I have truth on my side and the expertise of an FBI agent.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  He swallowed hard. “I have the gun, remember?”

  “Right. For a moment, I forgot. What’s my job in the grocery?” she said.

  “Pose with me as a happy family.” He counted to three, taking deep breaths to manage the head pain.

  “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

  His shoulders lifted and fell. “I put it away for Isabella.”

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  He unlocked the door and they emerged from his truck, like they’d done previously. “There’s a clean towel beside her car seat. We’ll need it to protect Isabella from the cart’s germ-infested child seat.”

  She peered at him curiously as he backed away from her. Would she scream for help? He wanted to think Isabella had her priority. For him, his daughter took front and center.

  A twist of pain seared his head. Isabella hadn’t been safe since he found her.

  Am I risking my daughter’s life to save my own skin? God, I need help.

  They walked inside Brookshire’s and straight to the aisle containing hair supplies, where he could purchase color to shampoo in, something to cover his light-brown hair . . . Red. Those looking for him might be temporarily deluded. He snatched it and moved to purchase a case of water and snacks for them and Isabella. Specifically, dry saltines for him. He also picked up four phones and hoped he’d selected good ones. After grabbing bottles of Tylenol and Aleve to alternate every two hours for the head pain in case the Imitrex didn’t kick in soon enough, they stepped into a checkout line.

  Two police officers moved in behind them. Jason forced his insides to stop shaking. Isabella giggled at the officers. He sneaked a look at his daughter, who usually shied away from strangers.

  “Hey, cutie,” one officer said, “are you talking yet?”

  “Small vocabulary.” Jason touched Isabella’s head. “And the word no.”

  “She’s beautiful,” the officer said. “I’m sure you’re proud of her.”

  Jason smiled at April. “We are.”

  “She looks like her daddy except for her mouth and chin.”

  He froze. April, please don’t give us away.

  “I’m glad she got something from her mother.” April leaned over Isabella and kissed the tip of her nose.

  Would she yank his daughter from the cart and alert the officers? Would a firefight ensue?

  “Doubt those blonde curls last long with your dark hair,” the officer said.

  What if Isabella were hurt? He’d never forgive himself. Time to surrender—

  “I agree. They’ll darken as she grows older,” she said. “We’ll enjoy them while we can.”

  April had made her choice.

  Jason paid cash for his purchases, and they made their way to his truck. “I appreciate your help back there.”

  “I keep my word.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “I did this for Isabella. If she hadn’t been with us, I’d’ve initiated a takedown.”

  “No doubt.” The truck chirped as he hit the button on the key fob to unlock the door. “When you get inside, would you hand me the prescription bottle in the glove box?” When she retrieved the bottle, he continued. “Put it in the drink holder.” He tore into the package of saltine crackers and quickly chewed a handful. Twisting off the lid of the Imitrex, he swallowed two with water. His stomach churned.

  “The dosage says one tablet.”

  “Not when a migraine is a jackhammer.” He turned into the drive-through of a McDonald’s about a mile down the road. “Breakfast?” he said to April. It was about 9:20. “Not sure when we’ll have a chance to grab something to eat. We’re about twenty miles from home. But I can’t face what’s ahead without giving the meds time to work.”

  “Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit and a large black coffee. My brain craves caffeine this morning.”

  He ordered apple juice for Isabella. “Would you open a bottle of water and dilute it for Isabella? She’s probably hungry. There’s a finger-food meal in her diaper bag.”r />
  “I’ll take care of it.” She studied him. “You look horrible. How long before the Imitrex manages the pain?”

  “Hard to say.” He didn’t order anything for himself. While waiting in the drive-through, he scanned the area for law enforcement.

  Soon they received their order and were on the road again. Within five minutes, he found a run-down, one-story motel called the Texas Horseshoe, apparently named because of its shape. No sign of security cams outside. Jason drove over rough ground to the back of the motel.

  “What are we doing?” she said.

  “I need to shake this headache. Can’t think clearly, so we’re taking a detour. Back here no one can see my truck from the road.” Slapping on the baseball cap and sunglasses, he turned to her. “Well, it’s not the Ritz,” he said.

  “Or a Motel 6.”

  He offered a weak smile and switched off the engine. “Same routine. Are you refusing?”

  She shook her head. What was she thinking? Planning?

  The three of them exited the truck, and Isabella willingly went to April.

  The desk clerk looked like he’d seen his best years during the Depression. A smile buried deep in his wrinkles when Isabella attempted to get her daddy to hold her. Jason paid cash for the room, and the manager gave him a key. No security cams were in sight.

  They walked to their room.

  “Are you going to sleep?” she said.

  “Haven’t figured it out yet. This whole thing feels strange, like a nightmare that goes on and on. When Lily lay sick, she said, ‘The darkest moments of our lives are intended for God to use in a mighty way.’ It’s hard for me to see anything positive coming out of this except for a killer to be locked up.”

  “If Lily were here, what might she say about the risks you’re taking? And the danger for Isabella?”

  “I’m putting my daughter in my parents’ hands.”

  “What if the kidnapper returns?”

  “My parents know how to use firearms. Besides, the woman who kidnapped Isabella would be a fool to show her face near my folks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He had doubts, lots of them. “Lily believed in fighting for truth. I’m doing this for our daughter.” He gasped and stopped. If he passed out, she’d gain control, and he’d be locked up.

  “You’re not the kind of man who watches things happen and sits idly by,” April said.

  “I could have gone to the FBI a long time ago about Willis. But like a coward, I ignored him while he destroyed innocent lives. Never again. My daughter will have a legacy she can be proud of.”

  Inside the room, he pressed the remote for a ten-year-old TV sitting precariously on a flimsy table, and it brought the latest news. “Update on the Jason Snyder fugitive case. We can now confirm Snyder has his baby daughter with him. County Sheriff Willis Lennox reports Snyder will kill his baby daughter if pursued. It’s rumored he has also abducted FBI Special Agent April Ramos, a hostage negotiator from the Houston office who has been reported missing. Snyder is armed and considered dangerous.”

  “Media will need to do a 180 on me,” he said. “Right now I have to get some sleep.”

  “And you want my cooperation again?”

  “You won’t like it, and I’m sorry.”

  She held out her wrists in a gesture of understanding.

  10

  APRIL HELD HER BREATH while Jason vomited in the small motel bathroom. Thank goodness the room had a window. Even with it open, the stench nearly overpowered her, combined with the musty, moldy smell of the room’s age and previous occupants.

  Twice he’d made a quick trip to the porcelain bowl, dragging her with him. She struggled to hold Isabella and keep her balance. Jason finished his retching and swished his mouth with water. No moans or swearing. Only apologies.

  She attributed part of his sickness to the auburn hair color fumes. He’d insisted upon shampooing it in before resting. During the application, he’d tied her to the bathroom doorknob. Both times he questioned the tightness of the rope and apologized.

  “Do the headaches happen often?” she said.

  “Not since Lily died. Hey, I’m really sorry about this. I thought coloring my hair was important, to give me a little edge from being recognized, but it didn’t help my stomach or head.”

  “Just feel better.” Maybe he blamed himself for his friend’s death, and the guilt triggered physical symptoms. A characteristic April could use in her negotiations. Back at Brookshire’s, she really wanted to reach out to the officers for help, but the gun in Jason’s waistband and the varying emotions of the past several hours stopped her. Yet in the decision to protect him, she’d made progress in building trust. The scary part came when she admitted feeling something more than compassion for him.

  “What settles your stomach and gets rid of the pain?” she said.

  “Sleep and the Imitrex to work. I’ve probably flushed them down the toilet, but I can’t take any more for a while. After a nap, I’ll alternate the over-the-counter meds.” He took deep breaths. “Thanks for putting up with my . . . health issues. I think I can sleep now.”

  “No problem.”

  He righted himself from the sink and gripped it. Even sick and matching the pallor of the toilet, he had a ruggedness about him. If they’d met on a blind date at a coffeehouse, she’d have found him appealing, possibly attractive. Glancing at the time, she calculated her captivity had lasted longer than her last date. She’d officially lost her mind.

  “Puking my guts out slows down my plans.”

  She jostled Isabella, who wanted her daddy to take her. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Will be. I’ll fix her a bottle, and she might sleep beside me.”

  “Let me do the honors.”

  He lifted his wrist, tied to hers. “We’ll manage it together.”

  They moved to the lumpy bed and cardboard nightstand that reminded her of crack houses in Houston. She mixed formula with bottled water, and he shook it. Seemed like Isabella drank a lot of formula, but April had no experience.

  He laid her purse on top of the TV. “I’m leaving the news on for both of us. And it might help fill in the time while I sleep.”

  “I need a nap too,” she said. “No sleep last night.”

  “Everything okay? Are you sick?”

  A kidnapper who displayed sympathy. “Like you, I’m tired.”

  “If you need to talk about the suicide, I have a good ear.”

  Again she wondered, Who was this man? “Uh, thanks.”

  He placed a pillow on the opposite side of the bed so Isabella wouldn’t topple off. The news caught both their attention.

  “A truck matching the description of Jason Snyder’s was seen northeast of Cleveland on Interstate 69. Security cameras caught Snyder, his daughter, and FBI Special Agent April Ramos entering and exiting a grocery store in Kountze. Authorities are following what they believe is Snyder’s path back to his home in Sweet Briar. Snyder is a hunter and may be heading into the thick woods and marshes in the area. Do not approach this man. Report any suspicious activity to local law enforcement.” The reporter gave a recap of Russell Edwards’s murder, complete with pics of Jason and Russell.

  Jason rubbed his forehead. “I’ve got to be careful. Rethink my strategy.” He took Isabella and stretched out on the faded bedspread, forcing April onto a chair beside him.

  She fought the tug at her eyelids, telling herself she must form her own plan. But soon they were all asleep.

  Jason woke to quiet. His head hurt, but the pain was manageable, and his stomach didn’t churn. He moved slowly to take a glimpse of Isabella. He turned to April slumped in a chair beside him. Both slept, peaceful and untroubled. April, the negotiator, who’d lost a man in the early hours of the morning and now was tied to a man wanted for murder. Her dark hair lay across her face, and he wondered if under different circumstances they might have been friends. For certain, he’d always be grateful for her saving Isabella fro
m the kidnapper.

  He needed Tylenol, yet that meant waking April. Time to get moving too. The migraine had set him back almost two hours. He craved information like Isabella longed for a bottle every three hours and twenty-two minutes or less. Before waking Isabella and April, he wanted a few minutes’ conversation with his dad.

  Slowly he eased up, forcing his mind to focus and will away the pain. April opened her eyes but said nothing. Her gaze flew to Isabella, curled up next to him. She stirred, and he patted her back.

  Sitting on the bed in the motel room, with one of the new burner phones in working order and on speaker, he looked up at April studying him. If only she believed him, he wouldn’t have had to tie her wrist to his with a rope from his truck.

  “Can my phone be traced when I call my dad?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Don’t have much choice, and I’d like for you to hear the conversation. I’ll toss it in the trash when we leave.” After he pressed the familiar numbers, Dad picked up on the second ring.

  “This is Jason.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Working on it. I have Isabella, and she’s fine. The woman who nabbed her escaped.”

  “What about the FBI agent?”

  “She’s here with me, listening to our call. Do you have a minute to answer a couple of questions? I’ll make it fast.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Tell me about the woman who took Isabella.”

  Dad snorted. “About 9 p.m. the doorbell rang, and your mother answered it. A person dressed in black and wearing a stocking mask shoved your mom inside. Waved a .22 in our faces. I figured her for a man because of a husky voice until I saw the red nails, chipped and broken. Don’t know why I remembered that. She should have worn gloves. Wanted to know where to find Isabella. We refused to tell her. I thought she might shoot us. She took our phones. I asked her who put her up to this, and she said, ‘None of your business.’ She ordered us into the garage. Tied us up.”