by Ace Collins
“What?”
“A few fingers. Maybe an ear. Do you have children?”
“If I did would you want me to give you them as well?”
“No, I have kids of my own.” Beals laughed, then suddenly took the knife, drew it over his head, and slammed it into the table with such force the noise echoed off the walls. The knife stuck there, its blade buried at least an inch into the wood, and wobbled for several seconds. Beals studied Sutton for a moment then leaned down until his eyes were just two inches from his face. “I just wondered if you ever wanted to have any children. Like maybe in the future?”
A look of panic crossed Sutton’s face. Beals laughed. He let the man sweat for a moment before retrieving the knife. “Relax, Charlie, I’ll keep everything I cut off and give the stuff back to you when you give me the rest of the money. After all, once the note is paid in full, I won’t need the collateral.”
Sutton broke. “I’ve got cash hidden here at the house. If you’ll let me up, I’ll get it for you.”
Beals was almost sorry it was over. He had a few more ideas that he knew would take at least a decade off the man’s life. It was ten years this skunk needed to give up too.
“Lead the way, Charlie.”
Sutton headed back to a room that seemed to serve as an office. Beals watched as he opened the closet door and pulled a shoe box from a shelf. He set the box to one side and reached back, moved a loose piece of sheet rock, and fished out a plastic file box.
Before he could open it, Beals stepped closer. “Put it on the bed where I can see it.”
Sutton did as he was told. He flipped the box’s two latches and opened the lid. He was about to reach inside when Beals stopped him. “Move over to that chair against the wall and sit down.”
Beals looked inside the box. There must have been more than two hundred thousand right there, within easy reach. He glanced over at his host. “I could make a lot of house payments with this stash,” he said wryly.
He counted out thirty thousand dollars. Stuffing the cash into his inside coat pocket, he glanced back at Sutton. “Been a pleasure doing business with you, Charlie.”
“You aren’t going to take the rest of it?”
“Didn’t come for that. Just came for Heather Jameson’s part of your con. I guess you get to keep the rest, at least for the time being.”
Beals slipped his gun back into his holster, took a final look at that disgusting leech of a human being, and slipped out of the house and walked down the front sidewalk to his vehicle. Once inside, he punched a few numbers on his cell phone and waited.
“I got what I needed. He keeps his loot in a plastic file box in his office closet. It’s hidden behind some old board in the wall. My guess is he’ll be hightailing it out of town in the next hour or so.”
Smiling, Beals punched in another number.
“I got the thirty grand and I alerted the FBI. They’ll be moving in on him in a few minutes. I’ll drop the cash by your office in the morning.”
Beals took one more look at the quaint neighborhood, now lit by a few streetlights. He shifted into drive. A surprise party was on its way to the Childress Lane home of Charles Sutton, and he didn’t want to be there when it arrived.
IT WAS JUST BEFORE EIGHT IN THE MORNING. LIJE got up and showered. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a white polo shirt and walked into the kitchen. After pulling a Coke from the fridge and retrieving a muffin and a plate from the cabinet, he sat down at the breakfast bar and studied the pond. Several ducks and two geese were gliding across the water. For a second, he yearned to be one of them. To have no cares, no grief, and not to be concerned with an unfathomable mystery.
His bullet wound didn’t hurt anymore, but there was still pain everywhere around him. Everything that once was good—the memories, the all-but-forgotten bits of happiness—now caused only pain. Scenes from the past, memories of wonderful times, flooded his mind. But it was torture. Kaitlyn was everywhere. He could not make a turn without seeing her. He struggled to come to grips with the reality of his loneliness, his aloneness, and finally opted to embrace a simple plan of escape. To keep from drowning in the knowledge of all that he had lost, he decided to work, at something. He would find a purpose, a focus. Work would be his balm.
He entered his study and booted up his Mac, watched as it automatically connected to the internet. Scanning a cable news site, he saw that the story had now broken big time. The national media had arrived in Salem. A media camp was set up outside the county jail. Now he really was in prison. The world had come to his sleepy Arkansas hamlet.
The headline read, “Law Partner Arrested in Double Murder.” He read the story, obviously slanted to convict Heather Jameson long before she faced a jury. They couldn’t even get the headline right. She was all but hung. It would take a Perry Mason moment to keep her off death row. He scanned other accounts and realized the urgency in finding the real motive for the murder and attempted murder on Farraday Road and for the shots fired at him outside his home. Could he provide that motive? Investigation of murder was completely out of his range of experience.
Taking a final swig of his soft drink, he got up from his desk and wandered back into the kitchen. He placed his plate in the dishwasher and a wave of despair rushed over him. He glanced at the bottle of sleeping pills Dr. Herring had prescribed. A couple of them could allow him to escape for a while. Mindless slumber was incredibly appealing. The rest of the bottle could … No, he couldn’t escape, not now; he had Heather to think about. Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps it was a way for him to focus on the living and not on how much he had lost. What he needed to do was uncover the real reason for all this deadly madness.
He looked out at the pond. He even wished Curtis and her combative personality were back. He needed fresh ideas. He needed a new perspective. He needed some real help. Someone with experience. As much as he didn’t want to admit this, he couldn’t do what he wanted to do all by himself.
He walked back to his study and, after looking up a number, made a call.
“Robert Cathcart,” the voice said.
“Dr. Cathcart. My name is Lije Evans. I live in Salem and need to tap into your vast knowledge of local history. I know this is short notice, but could I drive over and take a few minutes of your time today? Maybe as much as an hour?”
Until now, he had never been so socially inept. His request was too quick. This wasn’t how business was done. There should have been small talk, a bit of explanation, and then the request for a visit.
“What’s this about? ” Cathcart’s voice crackled as he spoke. If he had been put off by Lije’s abrupt manner, he didn’t show it.
“It concerns a train robbery the James brothers committed on the old Hardy train line. I need all the information I can get on it.”
This time Cathcart’s speech was slower and seemed more calculated. “I’ll see what I can find, but—”
Lije didn’t let him finish. “I’ll be there within the hour.”
THOUGH LIJE HAD NEVER MET HIM, HE HAD KNOWN of Dr. Robert Cathcart for years. A retired history professor, he was also a train nut who had a vast library of materials in his home. Those materials gave a complete picture of railroading in the area from the day the first track was laid in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, until now. Supposedly, if he didn’t know an answer on railroading off the top of his head, he could find it in his trove of papers.
Lije hurried out to the barn and fired up his Cord. The Lycoming engine roared to life, and he felt a little life return to him.
So lost was he in thoughts of century-old train robberies, he forgot about the media circus. The crowd at the bottom of the hill shocked him. There were RVs, tents, and satellite dishes everywhere. It looked like a scene outside the White House. He couldn’t turn around. And he couldn’t drive through. His car rolled to a stop at the point where his lane intersected the highway, and he was engulfed by a sea of humanity.
“Mr. Evans,” a young woman screamed as s
he stuck a microphone in his face, “how does it feel to have one of your employees arrested for the murder of your wife?”
Before he could respond, a middle-aged man shoved his microphone in. “Are you in favor of the death penalty?”
Scores of other questions followed, all shouted over each other.
Still cameras clicked and video rolled. Lije looked for a way to exit through the throng. There was none. He was trapped. Curtis could have flashed her badge and gotten him right through. On his own, what could he do but give them what they wanted?
He turned off the engine and stepped out. He raised a hand in an attempt to silence the crowd. “I’m not in any shape to answer your questions,” he began, “but I don’t mind making a statement.”
As scores of men and women jockeyed for position, leading with microphones and cameras, he sought the words he needed to explain his position. “First of all, I believe that Heather Jameson is innocent. I think the ABI and local officials have arrested the wrong person. I stand behind her as her employer and friend and will do whatever I can to make sure her case is presented in such a way that proves her innocence.”
Three voices shouted out the same question: “Then who did it?”
Lije shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”
“Mr. Evans,” a tall black woman in the back of the group called out, “if you believe that Jameson was not responsible, then you also must realize there’s someone still out there who wants you dead.”
Lije nodded. “I’d think that likely, and if they are successful, then I guess it’ll clear my friend. Now, I have an appointment I must keep. Could you please let me through?”
Lije slid back into the Cord, started the motor, and edged forward. The reporters, apparently satisfied with what he’d given them, parted for the car to ease onto the highway. He glanced into the mirror to see them looking at him. They were doing their jobs, but their perspective too often was skewed. They wanted something uncomplicated and quick, a sound bite, a headline. Were any of them willing to do what it would take to uncover the real story?
Was he willing to do whatever it takes to find the killer? To unravel the mystery?
“CURTIS,” BARTON HILLMAN BARKED INTO HIS DESK phone. “My office, now!”
Diana Curtis knew the tone well and dropped everything she was doing in the lab to rush downstairs to the director’s office. She didn’t bother knocking, just barged right in.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Which case? ” she asked.
Hillman got up from his desk and moved to a corner window. He pointed toward the state capitol building. “Not really with a case. We have that under control. It’s the governor.”
“The governor? ” This sounded like politics to her. And politics never solved a case.
“Yeah. Did you catch Lije Evans’ impromptu press conference that just ran on all the cable channels?”
“No, I’ve been in the lab.”
Hillman waved his hand toward the TV. “Evans told the national media that we had it wrong. That Jameson is not behind the murder of his wife.”
“Well, doesn’t surprise me. He finds it hard to believe that anyone that close to him could betray him.”
“That’s not the issue. Doesn’t make any difference that we know we have it right. The governor’s a close friend of Evans. What Evans said put huge doubts into his head. The governor just called here demanding that I assign someone to protect Evans. Because you know Evans better than the rest of us, that person is you.”
Curtis shook her head. This was not what she wanted. There were cases that needed her attention and she was due a few weeks off. She just wanted to catch up and get out of town. The last thing she needed was to be a babysitter to a man who had no reason to have one. She knew that talking Hillman out of the assignment would be next to impossible, but she wouldn’t accept the job without at least showing some fight.
“Listen, Barton, send a junior agent. This is a waste of my time. I have no business being a bodyguard, Evans doesn’t want one, and the case is solved.”
“I promised the governor I’d send you. You’re the one he asked for. Seems you made a good impression at our banquet last month.”
Banquet? More like a royal waste of time. Held to award various medals for valor in the service of the state. She’d been forced to go to that too. Luck had placed her at the table by the governor and his wife. For reasons she didn’t understand, by the end of the meal they seemed ready to adopt her. They were even pushing her to meet their single son, who was about her age. The whole night had been a nightmare. She was just happy to get away without their suggesting names for her future offspring.
“Of all the dumb luck. Just call and tell him I’m jammed up.”
Hillman ignored the request. “Take some case files, a few books, your laptop, and a lot of coffee. It’ll be the easiest assignment you’ll get in a while. I’ll make sure there’s someone else up there to give you relief.”
“No way out?”
“Nope.”
“When do I leave?”
“After the meeting this afternoon. I’d suggest being prepared to spend a week. When that much time passes without any kind of attack on Evans, then I’ll be able to convince the gov to let us bring you home.”
“Fine.”
“Don’t forget, I’m going to be out of town this afternoon and we’re hosting that official from Germany—Schmidt. You need to be the one to show him around the facility. I simply don’t trust the tech geeks with anything other than evidence, and our field agents would probably take him out to a bar and create some kind of international incident.”
“Why don’t you stick around? ” Curtis suggested. “Practice your German.”
“I would if I could. Language is no issue anyway. Schmidt speaks English better than either one of us.”
“Fine,” Curtis grumbled, “and while I’m at it, I’ll clean the building too.” The last was said on her way out.
AFTER HIS UNEXPECTED MEETING WITH THE PRESS, Lije drove in silence, his eyes locked on the curvy road. It was a beautiful day, but he didn’t notice. He barely noted the tiny village of Glencoe. He was lost in thought. And lost in so many other ways. Only the ringing of his cell phone caused him to see the city limit sign for Agnos.
Glancing at the number, he flipped open the phone.
“Kent, what’ve you got?”
“Well, a few things,” McGee replied. “Thanks to you, Heather is talking to me, and that’s helped me dig up some information. It took some wrangling, but once I got near the top of Army Intelligence, I found a person who would confirm Jim Jameson is now unofficially considered missing in action rather than listed as dead.”
“So, does that help Heather? ” Lije asked.
“Probably not. I figure you need to know the rest of it. One of the men in Jim’s unit claimed he recently saw Jim in an Iraqi hospital working as an orderly. It’s unconfirmed information, so I’m skeptical. But there does seem to be some validity to the report that Heather’s brother was seen outside the green zone in Baghdad not long after he was supposedly killed. Heather told me this morning that the last few emails he sent home before he was said to have died indicated he was at the breaking point.
“Anyway, the current Army theory is that the IED that killed his buddy pushed him over the edge. He might have just dropped his dog tags and his identification and taken off, hoping the badly mangled soldier would be identified as him. Or, even more likely, he just went completely bonkers and raced off into the night. I’m leaning toward the latter. I don’t think in his state of mind he planned anything.”
“If he’s alive, that’s good news,” Lije said. “What did you find out about the coat the ABI thought was mine?”
“As you surmised, the ABI’s not doing much with it. Hillman has pretty much shut down anything that doesn’t focus on Heather. Ivy Beals, one of my men, did a bit of investigating. He found out the coat you saw at Jim’s Diner was
sold through a chain of about forty men’s stores located in Ohio and Pennsylvania. And, before you ask, Ivy’s working on finding what cleaners mark laundry with numbers like you saw, but, as you can guess, there are a lot of cleaners in those two states.”
“I’m sure,” Lije replied, “but who’s to say the cleaners are in those two states? My coat came from a New York City store and it has never been cleaned anywhere but here in Fulton County, Arkansas. To pin it down even more, only at Statler Brothers Laundry in Salem.”
“Yeah, I thought of the fact that the coat’s owner might live someplace else rather than where the coat was sold, but we’re going to hope that’s not true.”
“So you’re at a dead end.” How Lije hated to consider that fact, much less voice it.
“For the moment anyway.”
“Well, keep me informed,” Lije said. “I want Heather out of jail and that media circus out of town.”
Building a defense was usually a slow, long, and expensive proposition. The expense often killed the chances of those who had court-appointed lawyers. At least Lije had the money to fund Heather’s defense. What about all the others who had nothing? He hadn’t considered that before, even as a lawyer. Without his bankroll, Heather would be one of those who had no chance. A sobering thought.
LIJE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF A ONE-STORY SANDSTONE home that seemed to streatch forever along the top of a pinecovered hillside. It was obvious the builder spared no expense when he constructed the place. Magnificent did not come close to describing the eclectic mix of style and substance. In the past, Lije had seen the home only from the river below. Now, as he noted the intricacies of the unique design, he gained a new appreciation for the craftsmanship that went into the construction. The fact that the porch sported polished stone floors and the house had leaded-glass doors, stained-glass windows, and brass exterior light fixtures hinted at something very special behind the entry. It looked so much like a rustic depot, he half expected to hear a train pulling up at any time. Who had the creativity to have this place built?