by Jane Elzey
She watched him relax, but his eyes were still wary.
“My best friend, Zelda, who really is Zack’s old lady—his wife,” she corrected, “is getting blamed by the police for his death. They think she’s the one who ran him down. But I know she didn’t. She just couldn’t have. And neither did Genna. And I need to prove that. I have to keep moving through his last day until I find out who killed him. It’s the only way I can keep us out of jail.”
“How do you know she didn’t do it—run him down.”
Amy stared at Clayton for a long moment, culling the tidbits that would allow her to answer that question. Whatever evidence was stacked against Zelda, she knew her friend’s character. Even the shoes she threw in the trash couldn’t overshadow her belief that Zelda was no husband-killer. That none of her friends were killers of any kind. But if she did find evidence to the contrary, she wouldn’t think twice about tossing it in the trash, too. There had to be something on the trail that led to the one person who ran Zack over, and she was determined to find it.
“Well?” he said after several seconds of silence. “How do you know?”
“I don’t. I don’t know. But I have to believe she’s innocent because she’s my best friend. I need to go to the garage and see for myself. Maybe we will find something the police missed.”
“We?”
“Will you help me? Please.”
Clayton sat back against the chair’s thin frame. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and his cheeks were red. His blue eyes felt piercing.
She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out the mangled cardboard tab and key that opened the door to L91, then dropped it on the table in front of him. “I think Beck might want this.” She looked at the key and then back at Clayton. “If you will help me, I’ll tell you what that opens and where it is. I think it’s something Beck would want.”
Clayton shook his head. “You ain’t playing me, are ya?”
Amy smiled. She was a player. A good one. But her games were played on cardboard with plastic pieces, not on rowdy men in the backroads of Arkansas. She could only hope her plan would work well enough to convince Clayton to help her. If he couldn’t get her to Hot Springs, he could at least get her to the highway, away from Beck and this horrid trailer full of stench.
Her head pounded and her arm ached. What Clayton had in his pouch would make the pain go away, but she wanted a clear head. How else was she going to keep looking for what she had to find?
“It’s a FEMA trailer,” she said. “And it’s full of pot.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rian stuck her head out the car window and watched the helicopter turn wide circles in the air. She listened as the dispatcher radioed Ben with the location of another encampment that had been sighted from the air. The words were hard to decipher over the static, but she heard enough to know there was another clearing to investigate not far from the Hummer crash site. It had to be not far as the crow flies because she and Ben had been driving dusty dirt roads near the crash site on Highway ٧ all day.
“Copy that,” Ben said into the radio mic.
Shortly after daylight, she had filed a missing person’s report, with Ben’s urging, and had given a full description of Amy and her particulars, including the assumption that she was probably injured. Ben had tagged Amy’s disappearance as part of the Zack Carlisle investigation, and that along with the torched Hummer brought the hunt into full focus. The rugged terrain was reason enough to bring in a search-and-rescue chopper. With a helicopter, they could cover a lot of ground quickly. She felt bittersweet about dragging in the police, but the crash site had brought her to reality. This was no longer just a game of hide-and-seek.
Ben believed that Amy had been taken from the crash site by someone who had cut her out of the seat belt. She was inclined to agree. Whether Amy had been rescued from the burning car or dragged out against her will was still up for grabs, but either way, Amy hadn’t shown up at any of the nearby hospitals for emergency care.
Was Amy being held hostage? The thought had been in her mind all night long. She thought of the black Lincoln that had shown up at her homestead, the message loud and clear: We know who you are, and we know where you live.
She thought then they were Little Rock drug mafia, but maybe they were Hot Springs goons, instead. Maybe they had gotten wind of Zack’s little pot-in-the-trailer scheme. Maybe they were Zack’s pot-in-the-trailer scheme.
None of it made her feel any better.
If they had been following the Hummer, if they had seen the Hummer on the highway, they would have thought Zack was driving it. They would be surprised when they saw who was behind the wheel.
Had they taken Amy with them? And for what reason?
The thought made her want to scream. Amy wasn’t safe with the likes of that.
Ben turned the car in the direction given by the dispatcher. This latest location would be the fourth one they had scouted so far—without finding Amy.
She sat sullenly in the seat beside Ben, her faith beginning to fade. She wasn’t about to turn sissy and panic, but she couldn’t set her mind at ease.
“What are you thinking?” Ben asked, a glance in her direction.
“That this is my fault,” she said sharply.
“Not again.”
“I knew Amy had something up her sleeve. I could just tell. I should have talked to her about it. I should have—”
“Should have,” Ben interrupted. “You’re not a should-have kind of person. And it’s not in your nature to poke your nose in other people’s business. It’s not your style to tell people what to do.”
“Yep. That’s Genna’s MO.”
“So why is Amy’s disappearance your fault?”
“Because I’m the connection between Zack and those drug thugs. I’m the one they should have kidnapped.”
“Do you think she was kidnapped? Isn’t that a big leap?”
Rian turned to look at him—at his dark hair cut short above his ears, at the dimple on his chin. He really was Dudley Do-Right. “I hope we find her in time.”
“We will,” he said brightly, a genuine smile on his lips, his green eyes kind.
She wanted to believe him, though she sensed even his confidence was slipping. It would be dark again in another few hours, and there were still miles of forest to search.
They turned off the highway at an open gate marked Private and followed the long winding dirt road to a campsite with an old trailer parked in a flat spot at the center of a copse of pines. It looked as if it had activity around it recently but now appeared to be abandoned.
Ben motioned to the pilot out the window of the car, and the helicopter turned to the north, continuing its search mission, but still nearby should help be needed. He stopped the cruiser near a campfire ring with its chairs set around it in a haphazard circle. A thin gray wisp of smoke rose from a darkened log, and beer cans and food wrappers littered the ground.
They eyed the trailer, the door still standing open.
“Stay here,” he said, and Rian did. She watched him leave the car, his fingers ready on his gun. He circled the trailer, then disappeared inside, his gun drawn.
He reappeared quickly, climbed down the steps, and squatted, peering at the ground under the trailer, then he motioned for Rian to join him.
“Someone has been here recently,” he said as Rian walked up beside him. “There’s food trash inside. But not much else.”
“Oh no!” Rian cried when something winked from the dirt. With trembling fingers, she picked up a gold chain with a peridot stone. Tears welled in her eyes, the chain dangling from her fingers. “This is Amy’s necklace.” Her voice trembled. “She never takes it off.”
“Bring the chopper back,” Ben said into the radio mic. “We’re in the right spot.” Ben reached for Rian and helped her to her feet, meeting her eye
s with his. “Amy has to be nearby. We’re going to scour every inch of this place. Today we find her . . .” He knew better than to fill in the unspoken—dead or alive.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Leaning against the concrete piling of the Bennfield Hotel parking garage, Amy stared at the dark spot on the pavement. Chills ran up her spine. In her mind, she saw the lifeless figure from the police photos. Lodged in her memory were the sirens from her dream, a dream that seemed so long ago now in an almost forgotten time when she was snuggled up with her lavender-scented sheets and fluffy cat.
Poor Victor! She’d almost forgotten about Victor. Thank goodness she had filled his cat food feeder and water fountain before driving off in the Hummer. If he wasn’t missing his meals, she hoped he was at least missing his mistress and her warm lap. She missed him. She missed her shop. She missed the lively camaraderie of her friends, but she was determined not to return to Bluff Springs until she had answers and the truth.
Clayton stood beside her, and she fought the impulse to grab his hand. Had she known him a little longer, a little better, she wouldn’t have resisted the urge to put her hand in his for support. She swayed on unsteady legs.
“This is where it happened?” he asked.
She nodded and then looked away. “I think so.”
In her mind, she saw the blood pooled in the photo the detective had shown her. The red stain was now dark grit at her feet, evidence that a cleaning crew had attempted to remove the stain.
It was silly to think the tire tracks that led to Zack’s dead body would still be prominent in the busy parking garage. She now felt foolish about this errand she had finally talked Clayton into. Although, it hadn’t taken all that much. She had told Beck where he could find the growing house, and while she knew it was the trailer he was after, not the pot, neither would go to waste, she was sure. She had put the ace in her hand when she told Beck about Genna and sung her praises as a promoter. Then, promising Beck that Genna would help launch his rock and roll motel when he was ready, he not only had let her go, he let Clayton go with her.
“I didn’t realize there would be so many tire tracks here,” she said quietly, scanning the garage floor.
“Well, heck, it’s a car garage,” he answered with a chuckle. “That’s all there should be. What are we looking for?”
“The detective said they determined the intent of the force because of the tire tracks. But how do we know which tracks belong to which car? There are so many.”
Clayton pointed to a set of tracks. “Shoot,” he said, “that’s easy. These tracks belong to a sedan like a Toyota or a Honda. And these fit a truck. Probably a Ram. These, well these go to a tinker toy car, like one of those little BMWs.”
“How do you know all that?”
“My daddy taught us about tracking. And not just about animals. You can track a thief by his tires just as well as you can track a deer by his hooves. Besides, that’s what I do all day. Change tires and fix flats.”
“So what kind of tire track does a Mercedes make?”
Clayton surveyed the floor, walked a few feet, and stopped. “These are on a Mercedes, I betcha. And these, too,” he said, pointing to tracks leading out of another space. “What are we looking for? You’re shopping for a car or a set of tires?”
Amy stood next to him, her good arm on her hip. She had brushed her hair with her fingers and, fumbling with one hand, tied her hair back with a rubber band Clayton had on the stick shift in his truck. She’d tenderly wiped away the grime from her face with a wet wipe from the cab glove compartment, finding every single bruise on her face and lips as she did. He had given her one of his work shirts to pull over her battered and torn top, and now she and Clayton stood like twinkies in the garage, except his shirt fit her like a dress three sizes too wide.
“The detective showed me a picture of the tire tracks that led them to realize that whoever ran over Zack went from idling to fast. I’m looking for those tracks. I need to know what kind of car that would be.”
“Did they look like this?” Clayton stood at the bottom of a set of black tracks. She couldn’t tell if they were the same as in the picture, but she couldn’t say they weren’t.
She searched her memory. She had no reason to study the treads in the photo when they were shoved in front of her with an accusatory explanation. She wouldn’t call her memory photographic by any stretch, and the memories of her dream were getting in the way, too.
“What made those?” she asked, pointing to the first set of tracks they noticed that had scorched the pavement.
“I’d say it was a pickup truck. An older model. I’d say the owner buys a set of high-quality Goodyear tires and drives on ’em until they’re about run through. See this,” he said, pointing to a place in the track. “This is a wear imperfection. I could spot that truck in a line-up.”
“You can tell all that from this?”
“Well, no, but like I said, we learned about tracking and I know about tires. Tracking is about using what you know matched up with what you can guess. Sure wish you had that picture,” he added. “I could tell you a lot more then.”
“And what about these,” she called, pointing to a set of marks just outside the dark stain on the floor.
He walked to where she stood, his gait faster than she would guess, given his girth. He was beside her in seconds. “That’s the same truck. Leads from the top of the ramp all the way here. See this,” he said, pointing with the toe of his work boot. “There’s that same wear pattern.”
She saw what he was pointing at. The tracks were indeed the same. No dark tire tracks led away from the stain, but the authorities said that Zack hadn’t died on impact. He bled to death. Whoever hit him was long gone by then.
Amy sighed and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. It was impossible to reconcile these tracks with the ones made weeks ago. Even if the garage had been closed to process the evidence, there would have been many vehicles tracking through the scene since reopening. The police would have their photos from the scene of the hit-and-run, and they would have their suspicions, too. But looking at the tracks made her realize that what she was looking for was a set of footprints tracking blood away from the scene of the crime.
They weren’t there. Of course they were not there. Her heart lifted in her chest.
She looked up at Clayton and beamed.
“What are you smiling at?”
“I don’t see any Jimmy Choo footprints.”
“Huh?”
“Take me back to Cooley’s Bar, would you? I need to talk to the bartender.”
“I need to get to work sometime today,” Clayton said, looking at his watch. “I had a vacation day coming, but I got a car on the rack. Ain’t your friends looking for you?”
“I don’t think so. I bet they don’t even know I’m gone.” It was a bittersweet revelation. They wouldn’t know she was missing. She was off on one of her estate sale shopping excursions. That’s what they would think, even if they weren’t already sitting in jail.
All the more reason to push ahead.
She swung herself back into Clayton’s truck with its king-size off-road tires and rumble NASCAR sound. She held her arm in her lap. Having again refused Clayton’s shot, she could feel the pain deepening. Her face felt hot and flushed. She glanced in the visor mirror, shocked to see the person looking back. Her skin was gray, her eyes dull, her lip still swollen, and dark bruises shaded her forehead and chin.
Clayton was watching her. She shut the visor and settled back against the seat.
“Why do you want to go back to Cooley’s?”
“There was a truck following me the other day. I didn’t think too much about it then, but I wonder if it was following me because it was following Zack. Maybe he thought I was Zack. Just like that old guy with the shotgun. I know he thought I was Zack pulling into his driveway.�
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“What old guy?”
“I think his name is Crawley. He’s got a cell tower in his front yard.”
“Yep. I know him. Crazy as crazy does. He used to drink at Cooley’s Bar a lot, but I haven’t seen him much lately. Except, now that I think about it, he must have been at Cooley’s that day. You know, the other day when we saw the Hummer. I don’t remember seeing him in the bar, but I remember seeing his beat-up old truck in the parking lot. Honey Bee Queen was there, too,” he said and smiled, his eyes glazing over with admiration. “She sure is pretty.”
Amy smiled with a side glance at the driver. “Honey Bee Queen. I remember her. She had bitter eyes on me and the Hummer. What’s her name?”
“Shannon. Shannon Gregory. We were in the same grade. Her granddaddy owns that bar, and her family owns this county. The next one over, too. Apple moonshine from way back when.”
“Do you think she knew Zack?”
Clayton chuckled and looked at her sideways from under his cap. “She knows everybody,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Especially all the pretty boys. And most of them in the biblical sense.”
Amy laughed. She hadn’t heard that expression in a while. “Do you know everybody at that bar?”
He blushed. “Not in that way.”
“I didn’t mean in the biblical sense.” It was her turn to blush. “Do you know Jetson Gregory?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Big dude with a big ranch and a big pile of money. It’s his truck I got on my rack. Needs tires and a tune-up.”
“So is she dangerous?”
“Who?”
“The Queen. Shannon Gregory?”
Clayton burst out laughing and banged his hand on the steering wheel. His cheeks rolled up into pink balls of mirth. “Dangerous? She’s a dangerous little heartbreaker. I don’t know a guy in my high school who didn’t get his heart broke by Miss Shannon Gregory. She takes what she wants and leaves the rest to the buzzards.”