Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries)

by Weinert, Suzi

  Though he excluded himself from this group, in fact his driving skill, reaction time, eyesight and memory were poor and waning. But to ensure his own virtue, he rationalized that his close calls stemmed from other drivers’ obvious inadequacies.

  When stickers appeared on trucks and commercial vans inviting “Tell Us How We’re Driving” plus a phone number, Jeremy immediately recognized his obligation, if not his mandate! A clipboard with a string-attached pencil lay inches from him on the front seat of his car. He’d reported hundreds of “bad” drivers to their commercial dispatchers and his incessant calls to DMV and Fairfax County police gave him default name recognition.

  “Who do you think you’re honking at?” Jeremy shouted regularly from his precariously weaving car, for he drove while simultaneously writing down other people’s license numbers. “Shaking your fist at me proves you’re not only a bad driver, you’re a rude driver.”

  His off-road activity in the few first-floor rooms he still used in his modest two-story house narrowed to sleeping, eating and watching the tube while he snarled disparagingly at TV newscasters, “Aw, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” His on-road excursions consisted mainly of visits to different grocery stores and gas stations to find the cheapest prices; these simple trips lengthened by his increasing inability to find his way straight home.

  Lost once more while returning home from an errand, he shouted loudly inside his car to no one. “I pay my taxes, damn it! Can’t a citizen expect easy-to-see, easy-to-read signs and the same familiar streets? Criminal how this county allows so damn much new development that a man can’t find his way around any more!” Jeremy ranted on, noting at the next readable sign that he had turned onto Winding Trail Road. “Worse yet, all this expansion means even more traffic. And hell, if there isn’t another example just ahead of me.”

  Even on this narrow back road he wasn’t alone. A white Cadillac Crossover sped along the curves just ahead of him until, without warning, the car stopped to turn so abruptly that Jeremy slammed on his brakes and skidded to a ragged sideways halt.

  “Damn you,” he shouted at the vehicle, grabbing his clipboard to record the offender’s license number. “I’ll report you before this day ends!” He shook his fist at the driver of the white SUV, which paused where it turned in the gravel driveway. “You’ll be sorry!” he yelled, his threat bouncing unheard against his closed car window.

  With his usual thoroughness, Jeremy read the street number on the mailbox and wrote on his clipboard “3508 Winding Trail Road, VA tag YRDSALE,” oblivious that his own car dangerously straddled the middle of the road near a hazardous blind curve.

  At first the license plate made no sense to him until he connected it with the big YARD SALE sign at the driveway entrance of 3508. What a damned fool license plate! What was the world coming to? Yard sale, indeed!

  By the time he reached home an hour later via an unsettlingly circuitous route, two other traffic incidents superseded this one on his clipboard. Winding Trail no longer filled his immediate focus, but neither was it forgotten.

  CHAPTER 26

  In the total blackness where she lay, Jennifer concentrated awareness into her exploring fingers. Still shaken from the panic attack, she calmed enough to reason that she must try to understand where she was.

  Her right hand traced a vertical wooden wall rising at a 90-degree angle, but her left hand discovered empty space beyond the wooden pallet on which she lay in the dark. Baffling!

  Cautiously, she curled her left hand over the edge of that pallet, finding a 90-degree angle going down. If only she could see in this cursed blackness!

  Lifting onto her elbows, she raised her left arm carefully over her head, her fingers searching for a ceiling. Finding none, she pushed into a sitting position, still touching nothing above her but aware of pulsing pain in her cranium. When she felt the back of her head, her fingers touched a tender baseball-size lump. Pressing it added sharp arrows of pain to the persistent dull ache there. Was the crusty stickiness in her hair blood?

  Her head throbbed and her back ached, but why? The dog. Did he knock her down? Did she whack her head? Was she unconscious? If knocked out, she wouldn’t remember being brought to wherever this was. From dealing with her children, she knew a head blow could produce a concussion requiring bed rest. But her need to understand her surroundings superseded bed rest and besides, she might not have a concussion at all.

  Using both hands, she traced the wall upward as high as she could reach and fanned her hand in circles to determine its contours. The pallet where she lay and the wall behind it were made of the same wooden slats!

  Turning on her left side and reaching down as far as she could, she felt the side of a platform that dropped away. Wooden slats again! Sitting up slowly, she dangled a foot downward until it touched something flat. The floor?

  Her throbbing head forced her to lie down again but she considered what she’d learned: a platform of wooden slats, with the same slats rising horizontally up the wall in back and down to the floor in front. A wooden bench in a black room?

  Piecing together the events before she wakened in this dark place, she knew she was put here deliberately. So the way in could be the way out. But where was the way in?

  Exploring in darkness was risky, but if she was very careful... Sliding to the floor, she felt her way blindly along the base of the bench until it abutted one wall and then back-tracked to where it touched the opposite wall. From garage sales, she knew the distance between her outstretched thumb and little finger measured 7 1/2”, so she counted how many times this hand measurement fit the bench from one wall to the other. Six and a half hand lengths times 7 1/2” equaled about 48”, so the bench was roughly four feet long and filled one entire end of the enclosure.

  Now the dangerous part. Complete blackness hid sharp obstructions, broken glass, creatures, filth or holes, maybe as deep as a well! She winced at these possibilities, but complacency felt the same as cooperating with that deranged man.

  Who knew what lay ahead? Maybe no food, no water, no light and no release—ever! At least now she still had energy to think and act, albeit within the limitation of her confined prison. Mercifully, she wasn’t tied up, giving her the illusion of at least some control.

  Cautiously feeling every inch of the way along each wall, she mapped the perimeter of a roughly 4’ x 6’ rectangular room, about 5’ 2” high, because her head brushed the ceiling when she stood on tiptoes and she knew she was that height.

  The wooden bench covered one end and at the other she identified two items by blind feel: a lidded bucket and a roll of toilet paper. The center of the room remained a mystery.

  Next, she crawled through the blackness along the now familiar perimeter, brushing her hands in large exploring circles across the floor and up the walls. That’s where she felt the outline of a door, locked, of course. On the wall near the door, she felt something sticking out of the wall. Like using Braille in the dark, she felt its shape and guessed at what it might be. But even if it were, did it work? Oh please, she whispered, oh please let it work!

  CHAPTER 27

  Hoping she’d guessed right, she rotated the little stick on the side of the gadget and held her breath.

  At the sudden illumination, her eyes narrowed reflexively while adjusting to this welcome contrast from the ink-black room. She blinked at a small plug-in night light! Tears of gratitude trickled down her cheeks.

  Hardly believing such luck, she brushed away her tears to study her surroundings for the first time. Indeed, a small, rectangular room with a door in one wall, no windows, no shelves, and empty except for the bucket toilet at one end and the wide wooden bench at the other. A concrete floor sloped down slightly from the base of the walls toward a 3” wide open drain in the center of the room. She pounded on walls but they were thick enough to be solid. Was this a sauna? If so, could he turn up heat to a stifling, murderous level? What happened when she breathed all the oxygen out of t
his enclosure’s air? And where was this box that explained the total blackness and lack of sound? Underground? Was she buried alive after all?

  Her eyes searched across the nearly empty room for a makeshift tool to pry the door open. Nothing! Weary, she sat on the floor to take stock of this crazy situation.

  Had she lost consciousness at another stranger’s house, they’d call 9-1-1, cover her with blankets and make her comfortable until help arrived. Contrast that with the deliberate dog attack and imprisonment in a cell. No mistake, she was in terrible trouble.

  Think positively, she counseled herself! Her car cell phone was turned on, though admittedly not working properly. Hadn’t police located and rescued a car-jacked child because the mother’s cell phone in the seat beside the infant broadcast a beam law enforcement could follow? This madman surely turned off or even destroyed her cell phone, so that wouldn’t help. He also had her purse, address and keys. Now her whole family was vulnerable, as well!

  With a wrench of longing, she ached for her dear Jason and pictured the sweet faces of her five children, one by one. Would she live to see them again? Even worse, would they fall prey next to this man’s insanity?

  Stop thinking about those things, she counseled herself. Concentrate on positive things! What about her car’s OnStar service? Did it include a stolen car tracking feature? If she didn’t return home for dinner, wouldn’t Jason call the police? Could they track OnStar to her car at that house with the yard sale sign where they’d find Wrestler and make him tell them where he put her?

  Unless he disabled it, which he would if he could. Or did OnStar only work with the motor on? She’d never tried it with the ignition off, but how could it work without power? Doubtful.

  Her brain-storming continued. This yard sale was not advertised, leaving no newspaper trail to follow. Turning into that driveway was impulsive. The only tangible evidence that the sale ever existed was the hand-painted sign at the road, which was surely removed immediately after her capture. Nobody had any way to know where she was!

  So… no cell phone, no OnStar, no trail to follow. No rescue! This left only one alternative: escape! And how in the world could she do that? She knew nothing about this weirdo, his motives, his past or his plan for her. If logic wouldn’t help, did survival here depend upon chance? She’d heard that chance favors the prepared person, but how could she prepare for this?

  Could she distract him? Could she startle or surprise him? Could she talk him out of whatever he planned to do? Could she throw him off guard? Could she learn what makes him tick and somehow use that to…?

  Her thoughts shifted to a new worry. Jennifer instantly recognized Wrestler after the graphic impression he made upon her at two garage sales. Did he also remember her since she angered him on both occasions? But wait! She’d worn a scarf on that bad-hair day and used only lipstick due to haste that Saturday morning. Might her natural hair and daytime makeup look different enough that he wouldn’t recognize her?

  Interrupting her recollections, the throb at the back of her head forced her again toward the wooden bench to lie down. She eased down at one end and surveyed its length, wondering the best way to curl up while protecting the bump on her head and the ache in her back. She thought longingly of her sumptuously comfortable pillow-top mattress at home and wondered if she’d ever delight in its softness again.

  By now her eyes adjusted well to the subdued light, allowing her to see more detail than at first. Staring at the bench, she realized all its slats appeared uniform except for the top board of the backrest, where a V-shaped nick had been cut into it. The off-center nick looked deliberately carved. But why? And why had something so irrelevant even caught her attention; because she had time on her hands or because alertness might save her yet?

  Something glinted toward the back of the bench. She looked closer. Wedged down between the slats and nearly invisible except for the accidental angle of light falling upon it, lay an object. Using her thumbnail, she tried unsuccessfully to coax it out. Had it fallen there accidentally or was it pushed deliberately? About to give up, she remembered the safety pin used to close her slacks when a button popped off just before she left home this morning. With the pin’s sharp point, she dug and dug at the thin metal object, at last prying it out.

  Taking it over to the night light, she bent down to examine it. A strangled cry escaped her lips. Her eyes opened wide with shock. Misshapen but clearly recognizable, shimmering in her open palm, lay one of Tina’s distinctive earrings.

  CHAPTER 28

  Ruger’s childhood memory of his deranged father’s return to their farm house and the ensuing rampage when he watched Mathis beaten to death was real enough, but there was more…

  Cowering inside the house with his mother, Ruger heard light rain begin to patter drops on the Yates’ farm house roof; drops also fell upon the child’s crumpled body outdoors in the open makeshift grave. The warm rain caressed Mathis’ still face until his eyelashes fluttered feebly. Eventually, his eyes flickered open. Maimed and dazed, the beaten child struggled to move his limbs, recoiled from the dizzying pain and lay still. But the soft rain woke him again. With slow, deliberate effort he managed to lift onto his elbows. Staring in bewilderment around the bottom of the dark, damp pit in which he found himself, he wondered at the layer of dirt covering him. Pushing very slowly to a sitting position and reeling with pain, he repeatedly tried to drag himself to his knees. Eventually succeeding, he struggled mightily to stand, clinging to the top of the hole for support. After numerous failed attempts to claw his way out of his intended shallow grave, he sprawled at last atop the rim and lay motionless, overcome by fatigue and throbbing aches.

  Barely conscious, Mathis had no vision beyond an instinctive urge to distance himself from this place of misery, despite danger from the dreaded strangers. Out of the hole and lying on the ground, he waited for the strength to move again. When it came, at first he crawled and then staggered awkwardly out across the field toward the unknown.

  Stopping often and clinging to trees for support, he finally reached and crossed a street before stumbling upon an impromptu roadside dump. After someone unloaded a first derelict appliance, others capitalized upon the convenient opportunity by throwing old washing machines and construction trash down the incline. Discarded wooden kitchen cabinets from a remodeling project comprised the dump’s latest clutter. Exhaustion, pain and intensifying rain drove the child to seek shelter. He crawled inside a gutted pantry which lay on its side, wedged securely against a tree, and closed the door as best he could.

  Safe inside the dry haven, the exhausted boy instinctively curled his frail, damaged body into a fetal position as the growing storm roared overhead. Oblivious to all but the dreadful hurt everywhere in his body, the child ignored the rain’s incessant drumming upon his makeshift shelter and slid mercifully into a deep, anesthetizing sleep. As the storm crisscrossed the countryside, bolts of jagged lightning stabbed the ground nearby, accompanied by explosive thunder booming over the roadside dump, but Mathis slept like death.

  Waking the following day and conscious of pain in every part of his body, he opened the pantry’s door and squinted against sunlight glinting upon wet woodland leaves and tufts of grass. He didn’t know the violent storm had gully-washed enough dirt into the grave where his father threw him to fill it half full of muddy ooze. He didn’t know that this morning his mother shoveled the rest of the rim-mounted dirt into the hole and placed a handmade cross on top. He didn’t know they all thought he lay forever at the bottom of that grave.

  He did know he was hungry and his body hurt everywhere as he crabbed his way with wrenching effort along the unfamiliar terrain. He vividly recalled his mother’s warnings that strangers wanted to kill and eat him, but never having left the farm, he had no idea where they lived or how to avoid them. He staggered across another road and stumbled through adjacent woods and farmland, stopping often to muster enough strength to lurch forward another few steps.

 
During his desperate flight, he traversed an incredible three miles before he saw a farm house from the edge of the woods and smelled tantalizing food aromas wafting toward him on the summer breeze. Underfed even before his newest ordeal began, overwhelmed by exhaustion and grimacing with every painful movement, Mathis could continue no longer. He crumpled to his knees on the forest floor, toppled onto his side and fell into a semi-conscious stupor.

  ***

  Sally rocked on the veranda of her farm house with her dog stretched out languidly at her feet. Two freshly baked pies cooled near the kitchen window and with farm chores to do this afternoon, she reflected that keeping very busy helped some, but not enough. She sighed sadly, hoping the pies, her husband Craig’s favorites, might cheer his somber mood a bit at dinner.

  Wistful as she was many times each day, she thought of her adored six- year-old boy, Matthew, taken from her only two months earlier by spinal meningitis. Craig grieved at least as hard as she for the son they both loved so much. She felt as if her heart had been ripped open, leaving a raw wound that could never heal. Life, once so full of anticipation when they focused on the boy, consisted now of going through motions because their real purpose existed no more.

  A trained nurse before she married, she blamed herself incessantly for failing to identify her son’s symptoms sooner. High fever, headache and vomiting were common forerunners of many lesser illnesses. By the time he mentioned a stiff neck, the seizures began. Rushed to the hospital, he rallied briefly, but antibiotics came too late to halt the disease’s insidious progress.

  He’d have started first grade in a couple of months. She’d already registered him, bought his school clothes and supplies, all of them up in his room, the room with no child.

  As a nurse, she’d witnessed grief cripple otherwise strong people, but until losing her own precious child, she hadn’t understood how deep anguish could stab. She ached for her missing son all day, and her short nights of troubled sleep continued the hopeless vigil. She cringed, knowing Matthew’s diffcult birth left her unable to have another child. Her dream of a family was over.