“Now, I need to know where Alexia Hamilton and Myra Mitchell are.”
Diana looked at him defiantly while the clerk broke down sobbing. He focused on the girl, placing the tip of his knife on her throat again and applying just enough pressure to draw a bead of blood. He watched the sweat ooze on her brow. The girl looked at her boss. Dewey followed her gaze in time to see Diana give a subtle nod.
“Th-they’re not h-here.”
Dewey’s face flushed as the anger flamed inside. Was she lying? Or was he once again a step behind? He controlled his emotions. He would take the lead soon enough and finish his assigned task. At the moment, he needed the information required to make that happen.
“Where are they?”
“I-I don’t know. H-honest.”
He applied a bit more pressure to the knife. She started to quiver and he noted a pool of urine settling in the wooden seat of her chair.
“H-honest. They left yesterday and I wasn’t working. I-I don’t know where th-they went.”
Dewey saw a roll of duct tape on top of a nearby file cabinet. He removed a short strip of tape and applied it over the girl’s mouth. “Behave, or I’ll cover your nose, too.” He turned his attention to the girl’s boss.
“So, where’d they go?”
“Who are you?”
Despite her attempts to remain calm, Dewey could sense the tension in her voice and see the perspiration starting to soak the armpits of her blouse.
“Where did they go?”
“You’re not Alexia’s uncle. She has no living family. Who are you and why do you want Myra?”
Dewey smiled at the assumption made by the woman. After all, who’d be after the girl when the famous A-list author had all the money? He’d let that assumption ride.
“Where?”
He slowly tore off another piece of tape and applied it to the clerk’s nose. Panic flared into the girl’s eyes as she realized she could get no air.
“St-stop it! Please! Don’t hurt her. Please.”
The girl’s chest began to heave with her mounting panic. He looked at Diana and raised his brow in a silent “So, answer me.”
“Th-they left yesterday. Right after noon. They’re driving east. That’s all I know! Please! Take that tape off! She’s suffocating.”
Dewey reached for the tape just as the girl’s head slumped over, limp. He pulled off the tape and watched as she took in a huge reflex breath. She would come to, eventually.
“I don’t believe you’re telling me everything. Where are they going?”
Diana stood her ground and remained silent. He didn’t really want to kill the girl, so he let her be. He looked about the room and discovered a large toolbox in one corner, on top of a box of paper. He rummaged through it and found a hammer. He returned to the desk and picked up the tape, tearing off a piece and placing it over the manager’s mouth. He then stepped behind her, where she couldn’t see him and anticipate his movements. He took a heavy swing of the hammer onto her left long finger as it rested on the arm of the chair. The woman’s scream stopped at the tape across her mouth, but the tears gushed easily.
He stepped in front of her. “Ready to tell me?”
Her face settled into a flint-like iciness, remaining unchanged even after the third finger hung from her hand, crushed. Her breathing had increased, but the tears had stopped. Dewey could see that she would give up her entire hand before betraying the Mitchell woman. Maybe.
He poked through the toolbox and smiled as he picked up a pair of tin snips. The fingers would yield easily where the bone sat already fractured. He sat in front of her, opening and closing the snips. Her face showed no fear. What was this woman made of?
Once again, he stepped behind her.
“A broken finger is one thang. You can use it again once healed. Losin’ the finger altogether is another matter.”
She tried to say something, but the tape transmuted it into mumbling. She tried to move her hand but he had tied it well. She started to shake the chair. Her muffled cries barely rose from her.
With his left hand he held her injured hand down, while with his right hand he directed the snips to her ring finger and began to apply force, her hand flinching. He heard her sobs as the skin began to tear, but he stopped at the sound of movement in the outer reception area.
A deep bass voice asked, “Diana?” followed by a knock at the door.
He muttered several profanities under his breath. He scanned the room for another way out. The window was convenient, but he had no idea where he would be in relation to his car. He hesitated, hoping that no response would send the inquirer away thinking Diana was elsewhere.
Suddenly, Diana kicked out with her restrained feet, sending her and the chair toppling.
“Diana!” The male voice reflected urgent concern. The knock became a pounding at the door. Dewey slammed the snips in anger at Diana’s head and rushed to the window. The latch opened easily. The lower sash barely budged. The door cracked at the sound of a shoulder’s impact. “Diana!”
Dewey ran to the toolbox, picked it up, and threw it at the unyielding window. The wooden sash and glass shattered on impact. Dewey pushed aside the remnants and escaped to a nearby courtyard as the office door splintered open and a man wearing an inn staff shirt charged into the room. Dewey ran around the building to his car, and floored the accelerator, spewing up rock and dust, as he fled the parking lot.
He knew the women inside had no idea what kind or color of car he had, but the man who’d interrupted his fun might have the details on his rental. He would need another vehicle ASAP. He thought through his situation. If the woman, Diana, talked, which she would, she’d let authorities know that she’d told him that Myra Mitchell was heading east. They would assume he’d be following that route. Would he be better off getting out of Taos now or under the cover of dark? Should he deflect any search for him by driving north? He could drive south, back to Santa Fe, and fly east to … to do what? Intercept them? What were the chances of that? And where? “Heading east” meant what? Was the Hamilton girl taking Mitchell to North Carolina? The east coast? How far could Mitchell go in her condition? Somewhere in between?
He picked up Highway 64 and moved north to the first gas station, where he observed the traffic in and out of the pumps while inspecting his road atlas. He selected the car he wanted and followed it as the driver pulled away from the pump, smiling as the driver entered the lot of a nearby grocery store and parked. Dewey surveyed the lot for video cameras and saw only one covering the store entrance. He parked next to his target and started to exit his rental when he spotted the driver and a young teen emerging from the store and walking back toward the car.
He cursed at the realization that the woman had simply stopped to pick up her child. He took the time to consult his map again and realized he had lost his quarry. She had a day’s travel on him and could be on any one of a number of routes east by now, but only a few were quality roads with enough towns that if Mitchell got into trouble with her health she could get help rapidly enough. Heading north made no sense that way. They could head to U.S. Highway 50 but that led through desolate areas of western Kansas. After that, they’d have to go to Denver to pick up I-70. U.S. Highway 64 was the most direct route east and would lead her to Tulsa, but it, too, led through some sparse country. No, the U.S. highways would lack cell phone coverage and quick access to medical care, but I-40, just to their south, qualified and would take her to Oklahoma City, Memphis, Nashville, and ultimately, western North Carolina. Trying to chase her down by car would be fruitless.
He pulled out his smart phone and checked airlines. He could be in Oklahoma City that night, hopefully ahead of her by at least a day and right in her path unless she had driven north to pick up I-70 or further south to I-20 in Texas. He could cover only one route and his gut told him he was making the right decision. But he still needed a plan. How could he possibly find them? They could be going just about anywhere “east.”
&
nbsp; Twenty-eight
(Summer –1969)
**********
Betsy had blamed dropping the flowers on slippery hands, but Georgia’s innocent comment stung like a literal slap in the face and delivered Betsy into such a funk she abandoned that first date with Rod. But he persisted, and a week later, they met at the nearest Skyline Chili. Then she put him off with a variety of excuses, until two weeks later, at Frisch’s Big Boy, he introduced Betsy to fresh strawberry pie from heaven. After another week of excuses, she accepted another date. She wasn’t playing hard-to-get. Her emotions went from high tide at full moon to low tide at new moon. Was she ready for a new commitment?
During that time, several things happened that seemed to push her past aside. After multiple failed attempts to call Curt Umfleet, her last call had been met with a recording that the number had been disconnected. Undaunted, she mailed him a registered letter including a check to pay him back, with interest. She had received no reply. Nor did the letter return to her, but the check had cleared the bank so she assumed life went on for the Umfleets. Harder perhaps, without Mary, but life went on. She would forever feel indebted to him for his role in helping her, but in her mind, she had settled her financial obligation.
In addition, she quietly asked around and finally splurged by consulting a private eye, or private investigator as they preferred being called.
“Good morning, Miss. Just how can I help you?”
“I’d like you to retrieve something for me, quietly and secretly, from a house where I grew up in western North Carolina. Can you do that?”
“Maybe. I need some more details.”
He sat behind his desk taking notes as Betsy told him about the chest she wanted him to collect. She gave no details as to its contents, other than it held important papers for her. She said nothing about Jimmy Bob. As for the reason she needed help, she explained that she had witnessed a crime there and for her to return would likely result in harm. She told him the local sheriff was in cahoots with the home’s owner, and wouldn’t help her. Maybe that was slandering Sheriff Connelly but the more she had thought about her pa’s activities, the more likely that seemed. He agreed to take the case, despite arguing that she should be a responsible citizen and report the crime she witnessed.
Five days later, she received a phone call to meet the man at his office. Had he found it? She was surprised to realize that her hope no longer soared in anticipation.
“Sorry, Miss Weston, but I couldn’t complete the job. The lumber stack you mentioned was used to build a pole barn addition to that shed. The place is filled with more junk than I’ve ever seen in one location. Heaven knows what he plans to do with some of the stuff I saw in there. I couldn’t begin to get near the spot you mentioned to start digging. I’m sorry.”
Knowing her pa, that junk would be there until he died. Betsy felt what hope she still had fade to black. Yet, she no longer felt the ache in her heart as with past disappointments. She reflected on her thoughts about the Umfleets. Jimmy Bob would not be found. Just as with Curt Umfleet’s losing Mary, she had lost her son. Life had to move on.
The following Friday night, Rod helped her discover Graeter’s Ice Cream where the bittersweet chocolate chunks, in the creamiest vanilla ice cream she’d ever tasted, could compete with Godiva’s best. The following day, she returned on her own for three scoops of the chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream, and a new stash of their homemade chocolate bars. She waddled from the store feeling like her stomach was a bloated watermelon.
Rod told her he wanted to wine and dine her, but she refused the wine aspect of his offer, so he fed her, laughed with her, shared his dreams, talked about school, complimented her on her work, and told her how impressed his father had become with her. He introduced her to treats unlike anything she’d ever tasted. Over the next month, he took her across the river to The Conservatory for dancing, to Mt. Adams’ Blind Lemon for quiet conversation, and to a Reds’ game where she actually got to meet Pete Rose and Johnny Bench. Rod swept her off her feet.
Jacob Meyer aided and abetted his son. He’d made it clear that never in his career had he met such a natural talent. He coached and groomed her. He became a mentor and in turn, she saw in him the father she’d always wanted. She played on these new emotions to add to her new card line and Jacob snatched up 90% of what she presented to him. To Betsy, he was the most artistic man she could imagine and the thought of his becoming her father-in-law made her heart leap with Rod’s first hint at marriage.
With that, her past slammed her into an emotional wall. She wanted to be honest with Rod, to tell him about Jimmy Bob, her escape from her pa, and Dewey Hastings. She didn’t think Dewey would ever be able to trace her to Ohio, but only time would give her full assurance that he no longer posed a threat. More importantly, Rod deserved to know she’d had a child before, out of wedlock. Yet, it scared her more to think of losing him now. Another loss would be too much. The timing had to be just right for such a revelation. And what would Jacob think? Or Georgia? Or her new friends? She had succeeded in forging the new life she’d always dreamed of. Could she risk losing it now?
After a tumultuous and joyous three months, Rod told her to get all dolled up for their next date to celebrate his graduation. She did, and he surprised her with dinner at the 5-star Maisonnette, at the end of which he got down on one knee and asked, “Betsy Weston, will you marry me?”
A year later, on the third of October, at two p.m., she became Mrs. Betsy Meyer and turned down her new father-in-law’s job offer to remain a freelancer. At the end of October, Rod’s third employer since graduating fired him and Rod remained a freeloader.
In reality, the honeymoon had ended with the wedding, and she realized she had been as enamored by the father as by the son. If only she had recognized that fact earlier.
Early in the new year, with snow on the ground and frost on the inside of the windows, Betsy glanced out the apartment window to see Rod sliding toward the main door. It was too early in the day. Had they lost heat at work? Or had something else happened? She stood next to her drawing table as the door to their apartment opened. The look on Rod’s face revealed a replay of the previous firings.
“What happened? I thought this job was going great,” Betsy said as Rod slinked into the apartment, her apartment, under her name, the only name on the lease and responsible for the rent.
“It was great. I don’t know what happened. Honest. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be an accountant.”
“Rod, you’ve got to find a job you can hold onto. If we’re going to have a family, you need to be able to support us. I want to focus on our kids, not being the breadwinner.”
“I know, I know. We’ve had this argument before. I’m not deaf and my memory is fine.”
He was right. They’d had this argument after the second dismissal.
“You must have some idea why they let you go. What’d they tell you?”
He glared at her but said nothing. His silence irritated her. She frowned and released a long sigh.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She grabbed her purse. “I need to get out of here for a little while. Don’t worry. I’ll be back to cook your dinner.”
With that, she dressed for the weather and stomped out the door. The road into French Park had been freshly plowed and by the time she reached the parking lot, she regretted the brusque, sarcastic tone of her last comment. She saw people standing around a fire built inside a 55-gallon drum and joined them briefly. Then she parked herself on a nearby picnic table and watched kids and adults alike sledding down the same hill where she’d watched the children roll just months earlier. The snow made it peaceful. The laughter around her should have lifted her up, but the inner turmoil would not yield. What had happened? She felt convinced that Rod knew that answer and resented his unwillingness to open up with her. He’d been so open and sharing while they dated. Now he acted like he had tetanus – was there such a word as ‘tetanic?’ – completely lock-jawed.
Still, the question “why?” stalked her. She returned to the main parking lot where a payphone occupied one corner of the nearby picnic pavilion. Doffing one glove, she searched through her purse and came up with some loose change, as well as the note with Rod’s work number. She popped in a quarter and called the company.
“Mr. DeVois, please.”
It took a minute to convince the man’s secretary to let her talk with him, but he came on the line. “I don’t have much time, Mrs. Meyer. What can I do for you?” He seemed irritated and she guessed he didn’t want to talk with her but was too polite to refuse.
“I’m so sorry to bother you and I won’t keep you long, but Rod came home and told me he was dismissed.” She watched the mist of her breath dissipate into the cold air. Was it an omen of something to come?
“That’s correct.”
“He won’t talk to me about it. I don’t understand what happened and I don’t know how I can help him if I don’t understand what the problem is.”
There was a pause, but when he spoke, his tone seemed to have softened. She got an earful of shortcomings: coming in late, leaving early, criticizing everyone else’s work while not finishing his own, mathematic errors and disputes with customers.
Betsy thanked Mr. DeVois and hung up, stunned. How could she help? If she mentioned these issues, he’d get defensive and complain about her nagging. He’d get angry if she revealed that she’d called his ex-boss. How could she affect his apparent lack of work ethic? But even more alarming was the fact that since she worked from home, she knew what time he left for work and that he always returned home at the expected time. What was he doing? Did he regret getting married? Did he have someone else?
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 74