“Curtis Umfleet, a jury of your peers has reviewed the evidence and do now find you guilty of second-degree murder and obstruction of justice. You are remanded to the custody of the state prison system, pending formal sentencing two weeks from today.
Judge Hoglund struck his gavel and waited for the flurry of commotion to settle before asking the prosecutor to approach the bench. Albritton couldn’t make out the conversation, but the lawyer remained serious and businesslike. His brother’s stirring beside him took his focus off the bench. He looked to his left and saw a deputy whispering into his brother’s ear. Mike turned to him.
“Gotta run, little brother. The bad guys are busy. Robbery in progress. Time to give chase.”
“Careful, Mike.”
“Always.”
Albritton watched his older sibling leave the courtroom and turned his attention back to the bench. Judge Hoglund peered right at him and wiggled his finger for the counselor to approach the bench.
Albritton pointed to himself and mouthed, “Me?”
The judge nodded. As Albritton approached the bench, the judge rose and said, “Come back to my chambers, Emory.”
The lawyer followed the judge into his private office and sat down in the chair offered by the magistrate.
“I’ve reviewed your petition to become trustee of the Umfleet trust, as well as legal custodian of the children. The father has conveyed to me, through his lawyer, that while he wished he had more time to assess his options and to evaluate your abilities, he acknowledges his situation and will leave the decision to my discretion. Be honest with me, Emory. Do I have any reason to be concerned? Will you have the children’s best interests at heart?”
A warning claxon blared in Albritton’s head. Had he done something to draw attention to his activities? He had amassed options to thousands of acres of real estate, but had yet to act upon a single one. The wave of land development remained east of Cashiers, but five years, maybe ten, would see it crash along his shoreline. He could be patient.
“Yes, Sir. As you saw in my petition, I’ve already found a stable Christian home for the children. I believe you even know the family. Also, the family’s land will remain in trust for their benefit. My petition shows the estimated income from farming that land. Plus, limited timber rights can generate more capital, all of which will go to the benefit of the children. The family’s home in Frampton Corner will be maintained for the children until they reach the age of majority, as requested by Curt Umfleet. I think everything is in order, Judge.”
Judge Hoglund eased back in his chair and scrutinized Albritton. The lawyer tolerated the first thirty seconds of silence, but by the sixty-second mark, he began to feel a bit nervous. He struggled to hide the emotion.
The judge finally sat forward and pulled some papers from the corner of his desk. He took his pen and leafed to the back page, where he started to sign his name. Albritton recognized the paperwork as being his petition and quietly sighed relief, holding in the jubilation that wanted him to pump his fist in the air with a resounding “Yes!”
“Thank you, Judge. I won’t disappoint you.” He shook the jurist’s hand and turned to leave.
He let the grin overcome his mouth as soon as the door to the judge’s chambers closed behind him. He sauntered down the hall into the courthouse lobby and out the front doors toward his car. He subconsciously patted his briefcase and the signed papers within it, as he thought about celebrating with Mike. Beyond that, he felt secure in his future and could now focus on a certain young woman, his college sweetheart. While they continued to see each other regularly, Misty Caldwell’s father had made it clear that any suitor for his daughter’s hand had best be financially grounded. Albritton could make that claim now.
As Albritton approached his car, a deputy sheriff’s car pulled up next to him, but it wasn’t his brother. Jeremy Herndon climbed out of the car.
He seemed out of breath as he caught up with Emory.
“Glad I caught you, Emory.”
“Hey, Jeremy. Catch the robbers?”
The deputy shook his head, looking grim. He pointed to a nearby park bench. “Might want to sit down. Got bad news, Emory, bad news.”
Albritton’s gut churned. Jeremy led him to the bench and Albritton complied by sitting down, even though he didn’t want to.
“The robbers were armed and waitin’ for us. Mike got shot before we even knew what was happening. Sorry, Emory, he didn’t make it.”
Emory had given a tearful eulogy at his brother’s funeral, while Misty stood with him and his parents through every step of the sad event. He had wanted to postpone their engagement. It didn’t seem proper, but his mother chided him, saying, “Don’t you dare delay the important things in life. If your brother’s death tells you anything, it should be how fleeting and precious life is, and how quickly and suddenly you can lose it.”
So now, Emory and Misty regaled their friends – old family, college, and recent – at the Greensboro Country Club engagement party hosted by both families. The warm summer evening was ripe for a dip in the pool and the smell of backyard barbeques permeated the Irving Park neighborhood where Misty grew up.
The couple whispered to each other at the head table, laughing at her father. ‘Guff’ Caldwell had tried his best to act the stern, doting dad when Emory asked him for his daughter’s hand, but his wife had already prepped Emory. The ‘old goat’ had been eager to take Emory into the family since he’d started law school and had been worried that maybe the young man’s intentions had changed since moving to the western end of the state.
“Just how many drinks do you think he’s had?” asked Emory.
“I have no idea. But he’s sure enjoying himself.” Misty patted his hand and pointed. “Look, my cousin Henry is taking a movie of Dad. He’ll never live this down now.”
Emory’s face turned somber and he pointed to the entrance.
“Misty, she decided to come after all, and she has Mike Jr. with her. Excuse me for a moment.”
Emory stood up and navigated his way to the main door. Misty followed. As Emory approached his sister-in-law, Hannah, and his nephew, the woman smiled and the young boy ran and jumped into his uncle’s arms.
“Uncle Em’y, this place is neat.”
“It is, isn’t it?” replied Emory as he tussled the boy’s hair and set him back down to embrace Hannah. “Hi. Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“To both of us,” added Misty as she joined them.
“C’mon, I have a seat for you with us.”
“No, really, Emory, I, uh … not at the head table. We –”
“Please? It’s where Mike would have been.”
Hannah hesitated, but nodded and followed the couple to the head table. Emory noticed his parents threading their way through the crowd toward them.
“Ganpa, Ganma!” Mike Jr. broke free of his mom’s hand and ran to his grandparents.
After greetings, Hannah parked her things at the head table and at the prodding of her father-in-law accepted his offer to dance. Mike Jr. watched her head to the dance floor.
“I wanna dance, too.”
Misty smiled at Emory and curtseyed to the boy. “I accept your offer, young sir.”
She led him to the dance floor as Emory’s eyes misted over. Mike’s funeral still seemed like a nightmare, and his death had left a larger hole in Emory’s life than he’d ever imagined. Misty could sense it; he was sure of that. She went out of her way to include Hannah and Mike Jr. in their outings and never complained when Emory stepped in as a surrogate father to his nephew, a commitment Emory had made to himself as Mike’s body was lowered into the grave.
Watching Mike Jr.’s comical dance made Emory smile, but watching Misty interact with the child really touched him. They looked forward to having their own children and he knew she would be a fantastic mom. The scene before him confirmed that.
Movement in his peripheral vision made him glance away. At the doorway, Dewey Hastin
gs, dressed in an ill-fitted brown plaid suit, waved to catch his attention. Emory rushed to the lobby to meet the man, wondering how he got into the building unquestioned. Hastings held up a large manila envelope as Emory approached.
“Sorry to interrupt. The photo lab messed things all up, but I got it all straightened out. Here’s them papers and pictures you wanted.”
Emory grabbed the envelope. “Thanks, but do me a favor and get out of here before folks see you. It’s not good for us to be seen together.”
“Crap. And here I got all dressed up for this. What’s wrong, Counselor? Not good enough for you?”
“You know what I mean, and why. Now, beat it.”
The man shrugged, turned, and left. Emory sighed in relief as the main doors closed behind the man. He hoped no one significant connected the two of them. He opened the envelope and leafed through the papers, smiling. Easy pickings from one of his first elderly clients. Now, his engagement present to Misty.
He returned to the room and found his fiancée at the head table, helping Mike Jr. with a Royal Crown cola while Hannah retrieved some food for them. He tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention.
“Happy engagement.” He handed her the envelope as she gave him an inquisitive look.
“What’s this?”
He gave her a few moments to look at the contents before answering.
“An engagement present. Our first piece of property – where our home will be built. Like the view?” The Kodak color photos revealed a mountaintop view overlooking Thorpe Reservoir to the west. A map showed the plot layout. The deed showed it owned in full by Emory Albritton. “Twenty acres, mostly wooded. There’s an old logging road we’ll upgrade to get to the building site. I see a grand house, with lots of windows and a long deck offering this view. What do you think?”
“How did you …?” She smiled and hugged Emory, ending the embrace with a long kiss. “It looks beautiful. May I?” She nodded toward her parents, who had finally taken a break from dancing to sit at an adjacent table.
Emory pushed aside a sudden feeling of guilt. He had not missed the irony of his brother’s death. Mike had been 100%-by-the-book, law abiding and in love with law enforcement. He, well, wasn’t. He skirted the law, manipulated the law, and yet Mike was the one to die. Mike had the loving family, the most to lose. Yet, Emory was the one still there. There was something universally unfair about that, but Emory didn’t want to dwell on that. He had his life to live.
Emory nodded and watched as Misty showed his “gift” to her parents. Guff smiled broadly and gave him a quick thumbs up. Emory basked in the moment. He loved making Misty happy and looked forward to a lifetime of such surprises for her.
Twenty-seven
(Present day)
**********
Dewey Hastings and Senator Albritton went way back, to the first time Dewey extorted Albritton’s lunch money on the middle school playground. Dewey didn’t have the book smarts of the younger boy, but he had the street smarts and the bluster to pull off just about anything. After that first hungry week, however, the younger boy’s brain had outwitted Dewey’s brawn and Dewey realized he had limitations. Still, he wasn’t finished with the lad. He cautiously “coached” Albritton on the ways of the street and saw that the boy had a talent for working along the fringes of the law to the advantage of both of them. Now, thirty-some years later, Dewey bristled at the mention of working “for” the senator. True, Albritton held the purse strings, but Dewey liked to think he’d been the politician’s mentor through all those years.
Those street smarts hadn’t been needed to locate the ‘Mabel somebody’ house. A brief stop at the local tourist information center led him to a display of local attractions in which the brochure for the Mabel Dodge Luhan House and Conference Center sat prominently near the top of the rack. Every bit of his experience, however, would be needed to pull off the task before him. In western Carolina, he knew every crag and dale, every twist of the commonly used roads and, more importantly, every rarely used back road. He could make a body disappear forever in his own stompin’ grounds. Here, he didn’t know how to get from one end of this dustbowl town to the other.
He drove his rented Corolla down Paseo del Pueblo Norte and marveled at the names. Too many ‘caminos’ and ‘paseos’ and ‘de la’ this or ‘del’ that. Where were the American street names? At least Kit Carson was a real name, a name he recognized. Besides, who would plant a bunch of prickly cactus and call it a garden? He missed the familiar flora of western Carolina. The mountains in the distance held some promise as a body dump, but what kind of vehicle would he need to accomplish that? The Corolla wasn’t likely to cut it. How easy would it be to move about the Taos Indian Reservation?
Those details could come later. At this point, he needed to confirm the women’s presence at that Mabel’s house. He pulled into the Kit Carson State Park and parked by the ball fields. According to his map, Mabel’s sat in the tree line at the base of the scrubby foothill. He hoped to find a vantage point in the park where he could casually sit and stake out the place. The area around the tennis courts gave him his only clear view of the historic inn’s property but trees, fences, and buildings obstructed any valuable observations. He would need a different tack.
He meandered around the park a bit, acting like a tourist, before getting back into his rental. His only option was a direct attack. He checked his appearance in the rearview mirror, started the engine, and drove right into the lot of the Mabel Dodge Luhan House. Only a few cars sat there. He wondered if they belonged to guests or the staff. He parked, and climbed out into the dry, warm air. He calmly strolled around the grounds, pretending to admire the architecture. A short man of American Indian descent, who appeared to be a groundskeeper or maintenance man, watched him closely. Dewey walked up to him.
“I’ve heard so much about this place. I just had to stop by and see it for myself.” He glanced around but could not discern which rooms had occupants. A thought came to him, prompted by his reading the travel brochure earlier. “So, could you show me where Dennis Hopper wrote ‘Easy Rider’? The Ansel Adams room, wasn’t it? I can’t wait to tell my buddies I actually saw it.”
The man pointed toward one spot on the property. A small patio shared by two rooms, but he didn’t say which one was the Adams room. Dewey saw no indication that either room held occupants.
“The front office had more on the history of the place.” The man moved to return to his duties.
“So, which room does Myra Mitchell use when she’s here?”
The man continued to walk away, but shrugged his shoulders.
So much for that approach, thought Dewey. He would have to take a different one. He put on his best smile, and walked into the reception area.
“May I help you, Sir,” asked the college-aged girl at the reception desk.
“Good afternoon. My name’s Carl Hamilton and I’m here to surprise my niece, Alexia. My sister-in-law told me she was here with a Ms. Mitchell. Could you tell me where they are so I can surprise her?”
The young woman knitted her brow and gave him a curious look. “I’m sorry, Sir. I can pass on a message for a guest, but we respect their privacy and don’t give out information on them.”
Dewey half expected such an answer. At least her body language admitted that she knew the girl and the Mitchell lady. In his mind that confirmed they were there.
“Perhaps I could call her on the house phone. You could connect me without divulging anything.” He hoped to watch her make the connection and determine the room. He looked about for a phone.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have a house phone.”
Dewey’s frustration mounted but he knew that sugar was needed, not spicy contention.
“Surely there must be some way. I drove all the way up here from Santa Fe to treat her to dinner and catch up on the family. I’d be much obliged for some help here.”
“Just a minute.”
The young woman exited to
a back office and Dewey could hear her talking with what sounded like an older woman. He stepped closer to the doorway, watching the shadows on the floor to alert him to any movement toward him. He turned back toward the front desk and thought luck was finally with him. The computer screen listed all of the rooms and occupants’ last names. But his only luck recently had been bad luck. Neither woman’s name appeared on the screen. Were they there under an alias, or had they again moved one step ahead of him?
“No.” The next words were muffled. “You know the policy …” Again, he couldn’t make out the words. “… don’t want paparazzi around …”
He realized he wasn’t getting anywhere and wouldn’t get any info the easy way. Plus, he was tired of playing catch-up. How did they keep managing to elude him? Anger management was only the name of a movie in his book. His Plan B had consisted of taking Mitchell and the girl by force and just driving until he found a suitable dumping ground. Plan B had now become Plan A. He snatched up the desk phone and unplugged the cord before pulling the rest of it out from the wall. He retrieved his knife from his back pocket and cradled it in his left hand. Next, he stepped into the office and closed the door. He saw an older woman move to pick up the phone on her desk. A glimpse of her nametag told him that she, Diana, was the manager.
“Not a good idea!” He brandished the knife openly and the woman, Diana, slowly removed her hand from the handset. “Sit down, both of you! Hands where I can sees ‘em.” He grabbed that phone and pulled the cord from the wall.
Dewey walked up behind the chair holding the young woman. “Put your hands behind the chair.” He held the tip of the knife to her throat as she began to weep. He quickly tied her hands together and took the excess cord to hogtie her ankles under the chair, all the while keeping an eye on the manager. “Your turn,” he said to the woman. Her rolling desk chair had arms, so he secured each wrist to an arm and tied her legs to the central post of the chair.
Satisfied that both women were secure, he sat on the edge of the desk.
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 73