She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  “What?” she answered, cracking the door an inch.

  “Come out and talk to me. Please,” I requested, sitting on the foot of her bed.

  “No.”

  “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, but I’d really like it if we could speak.” I played on her weakness–kindness. A dick move, but desperate times, and all that crap.

  “Brother Warren is going to be mad at me,” she wept.

  “I’ll speak with him. It will be okay. I promise, but you’re going to have to trust me,” I assured.

  “What will you say?” She poked her head out. Traces of hopefulness seeped into her voice.

  “Well, the truth. That we share feelings for each other. What he saw was an expression of those emotions.” More-or-less, I’ll lie my ass off.

  “You have feelings for me?” she asked, meekly, coming out a little more, but still clutching the doorknob.

  “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t feel something.” The statement, not a complete fib. Internal sentiments for her existed, just not romantic ones.

  “Oh, Nick,” she cooed. With swift motion she leapt into my arms.

  I held her tightly, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Sarah’s lust. Obviously, this woman’s physical requirements knew no boundaries because self-control ceased to exist. Recapturing recent intimacies appeared to be the only thing on her mind. Long fingernails ran up and down my spine as she drew closer, teeth lightly nipping at my neck. A split-second decision had to be made. Push her away, or sleep with her. Committing the sinful act would sate her sex drive, get her off my ass, and return her to a somewhat calmer state. However, both choices came with pros and cons. In the end, having Sarah on my side, manipulating her to place all trust and faith in me would lead to the others following suit, drawing them away from Warren and towards healthy, lasting, freedom.

  Breathing deeply, hands found and cupped her face. With every kiss, touch, sigh, and release all I thought about was Jillian, and how amazing it was going to be when I saw her again. Heart and soul wanted to feel anger over being duped by Warren, but the knowledge my beautiful wife was still in existence superseded any negativity. Someone to return home to. Someone to fight like hell for. A reason to get out of here was waiting for me on the other side. Hope returned. Strength deepened. Drive repaired. Between Jillian’s stubbornness, and my rooted desire to find a way back to civilization, we’d be reunited in no time.

  I’m so sorry, Jill. This means nothing. She means nothing. Please forgive my indiscretion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jillian

  It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for all of Lyla’s help, but if I could’ve shoved her out the door the moment my feet stepped inside the house, I totally would’ve. I had no time or desire for idle chit-chat. She had to leave so I could get to work, immediately. After exchanging a few brief pleasantries, assuring everything was all right, I went straight to my laptop. Liam’s job was figuring out who Paris Rosen and Shelly Rockland were. My focus zeroed in on boot patterns and the ‘J&S’ stamped nails. At first glance, research went slow. There were hundreds of men’s boots with similar tread patterns. Eyes grew tired and weary constantly looking back and forth between a cell phone picture and computer screen.

  An hour passed with nothing to show for it, which infuriated. Liam appeared heavily focused on whatever revealed on his screen, fingers flying over the keyboard like a madman. I resented him right then and there. As a woman who made her bones as an investigative journalist, figuring out two simple clues and how they linked back to one lunatic should’ve been as easy as pie. Not so much. Perhaps I’d grown lazy, rusty with the years separating drive and desire to achieve journalistic greatness. All I really did was scan newspapers, and sit on my ass nightly reading a TelePrompTer, while interviewing the flavor of the week. Of course, I had input and inserted my own personal spin on the show often, but it was cushy. No thinking required.

  “You can relax, Jill. Neither Rockman or Rosen are doing Nick, unless he’s got a granny fetish,” Liam informed, standing in the kitchen.

  Relief sprinkled over my brain, but it wasn’t enough to amount to anything worthwhile. Even if the two women were sleeping with my husband, what would it matter? Quite possibly they might’ve been involved, or perhaps a significant other of theirs went off the rails after finding out about the affair, but my gut shouted this was more than that. Joining him, I peered over his shoulder to gain full view of the screen.

  “Shelly Rockman is a ghostwriter for celebrities, more specifically, politicians. Paris Rosen is her assistant. Both use fake names to conceal true identities. In reality Shelly is Sheila Glass, and Paris is Jenna Stein. Apparently, all these ‘A-List’ idiots want their fans to think they wrote their tell-all books by themselves, but when put up or shut up time comes, they can’t string two words together to save their lives. Enter the Rockman/Rosen team who work behind the scenes to make the New York Times Best Sellers List happen. How does this tie into Nick? The two women were commissioned by Beau Winters to assist in penning his autobiography. It’s being released late spring; in case you’d like to pre-order a copy for some light summer beach reading. Being Nick is a Winters, one can safely assume they’ve been in contact to extract details from his point of view. Perhaps be privy to a fun-loving grandpa/grandson story, or get a quote. Nick is close with Beau. Makes sense. Took a little digging, but here they are,” he said, turning the laptop to face my line of sight.

  Two older women, one with short gray hair, and the other with a blonde bob, stood beside Beau Winters at a charity event last year–one Nick and I weren’t invited to, but every other Winters had been.

  “I can keep digging into them, but I feel it’s a waste of time. They’re a dead end. You find anything worthwhile?” Liam asked.

  “No. Damn it,” I hissed, slamming the palm of my right hand against the countertop.

  “Nothing on the markings on the nail?” Much like myself, Liam sounded shocked over my lack of digging up dirt.

  “Not a frigging thing.” Head shook, anger thundered.

  Walking into the den, Liam put on a discarded pair of rubber gloves. Thick fingers stretched in dark blue latex toyed with the nails. Moving to a nearby lamp, eyes squinted while the light cast shadows on the objects in question.

  “These are custom created. The metal color isn’t consistent throughout the body. If you compare it to the other ones, they’re all different. The stamp on the head was created by a cheap laser drill anyone could purchase online,” Liam assessed.

  As if the moon and stars aligned in one twist of fate, an epiphany struck. Racing to the computer I went straight to a popular online buy/sell auction site. Typing in the details, boom went the dynamite. J&S stood for Jamison and Sons Hardware—an East End, Long Island based mom and pop hardware store. Unfortunately, they had no website or online presence, but they did have a storefront. Upon further investigation, this shop carried a wide variety of typical goods and household construction items, specializing in hard to find merchandise. Their homemade screws, bolts, nuts, and nails were in demand, receiving hundreds of five-star reviews, all of which suggested the inexpensive products held up better than the popular brand names. A quick White Page search later, an address and phone number were secured. The shop wasn’t too terribly far from where we’d been earlier. What sealed the deal was their large selection of work boots–all bearing the exact same tread print as the one discovered earlier. The shoes weren’t made by Jamison and Sons Hardware, but rather from another local vender sold exclusively through the store. Showing this information to Liam, a solid plan was constructed for Lyla to return to the house bright and early, and for us to take a ride to the store. For the first time since Nick vanished, that night I slept hard, and sound. I was closing in on finding him, but what state he’d be in once found, frightened. I couldn’t think about that now. I had to have faith and hope he was still alive and well. If ‘W. Lessor’ laid one finger
on him, he’d pay, and dearly.

  * * * *

  Before the sun rose, Lyla returned, and Liam and I were off. Shockingly enough, only two media trucks were camped outside the house, and both paid no attention to the movement in and out of the driveway. With no traffic, and Liam putting the pedal to the metal, the typically nearly two-hour trip turned into a fifty-five minute drive. At first a calmness existed inside, but the closer we got, a nervous, anxious energy grew, coming to a head as he pulled off the road and into a dirt parking lot. The sound of the steel cowbell over the front door caused all rational thoughts to stop, inciting panic in a way I’d never experienced. Hands trembled. Knees shook. A hot creeping sensation slowly climbed my spine, resting at the base of my tense neck.

  “Pull it together, Jill. If I can clearly see you’re stressed out, whoever is in here will, and may use it against you. Be cool,” Liam urged, once inside.

  He was right. A metaphorical refocusing of the lens had to happen, immediately. Remain sharp. Retain as much information as possible. Take mental notes on everything. The store was small, but donned a well-kept exterior. It resembled the quintessential small-town country store you’d see in movies. Aside from farmland, off in the distance homes sat on parcels of property, but grocery stores, strip malls, convenience stores, even gas stations, didn’t exist. This store stood alone.

  Clutching the baggie with the nails in it, I moved away from the door, into the main area. A sharp chill shot up my spine, causing my body to involuntarily jolt. In a rather fatherly fashion, Liam pulled the front of my coat tighter around my waist, placing an arm around my shoulders. His gesture, comforting, especially on this chilly, almost freezing temperature morning.

  “Let me do the talking, Jill,” he said, leaning closer to my ear.

  With my nod, eyes explored the store. It was organized, but packed with merchandise. Every inch of the space was piled high with various odds and ends. The narrow aisles only allowed for one person to move at a time, suggesting not much foot traffic occurred at once. The smell of sawdust and cigars filled my nose, causing a rapid succession of sneezes.

  “Bless you,” an older man said, coming out of a back room. His appearance, classic, with dark blue jeans, tan shoes, and a red buffalo plaid flannel shirt. Thick white hair covered his head. Sparkling, warm blue eyes matched the smile on his face. “Can I help you folks?”

  “Thank you,” I replied, shooting a look at Liam. If he wanted to be the one to speak, it was now or never, or else I’d start.

  “I sure hope so.” Liam grinned at the gentleman. “My colleague and I stumbled across these nails, and were wondering if this was the place to buy more.”

  I approached, handing him the bag. Taking a pair of reading glasses out of his breast pocket, he put them on, examining the contents.

  “You’ve come to the right place. These are definitely ours. Do you need a specific kind? Amount?”

  “No, but thank you. Do you sell a lot of these?” Liam inquired.

  “I do. A few years ago, my sons came up with this idea to take scrap metal and melt it down to make nails, screws, fasteners, nuts, bolts, and things of the such. Since we have the ability to do that on premise, it costs us next to nothing. My sons package the items, and sell them on the computer for cheaper than the big box stores do. It’s a fantastic addition to the business. The oldest is creating a website for the internet. The youngest has been trying to get merchandise on shelves in larger chains, and handles all the advertising. I’m an old man. All I know is this store, which I inherited from my father, who inherited it from his. My boys want to expand–they want more. Who am I to stop them from keeping the family legacy alive while finding creative ways to make an extra buck? If they don’t grow the business, one of these large corporations will eventually crush us. To see that happen would kill me.”

  “That’s wonderful. I only hope my children will surpass my success one day like yours have been doing,” Liam said. “I have another question. I saw online you sell work boots made by a local resident. Can you show me where they are?”

  “Of course. Right this way. Some of the best shoes you’ll ever find. Strong, tough, long lasting, all terrain and weather. Much better than the junk malls sell. These are crafted with real leather, not a rubber/plastic composite you see on shelves today. True craftsmanship. They cost about the same, but you’ll wear them twice as long. I’ve had this pair for five years, and not a scratch. Looks like I just took them out of the box this morning.”

  Taking hold of the display shoes, we scanned the soles. Bingo. Shoe number three was the winner. Exact same pattern.

  “These are them. I’m dead sure,” I said, to Liam.

  “I’m going to level with you, Sir,” Liam started.

  “Jamison. Sir and Mr. Whitlock, is my father,” the old man corrected.

  “I’m going to level with you, Jamison. My name is Liam Stevens, and this is Jillian Winters. Not sure if you’ve heard the news story about Nick Winters, the psychotherapist author. He was abducted,” Liam informed.

  “I’ve seen the story in the paper. I’m not much of a television watcher, so I am unfamiliar with Mrs. Winters program, but my wife has a book or two of Mr. Winters somewhere on the bookshelf at home. I can go home and find them if that helps, otherwise I’m not sure how I can be of assistance.”

  “My husband is missing. I need to find him. These nails and those boot prints were found outside this run-down shack about twenty minutes from here in Montauk. I found them yesterday. The mailbox said ‘Lessor, W.’ I have no idea who that is, but whoever he or she is, they drive a church style van, and I’m confident they have Nick. The police and FBI have been an epic waste of time. They’ve more than likely investigated the shack, and have encountered the same dead ends as us. If you know anything about this Lessor person, please, I beg you, tell me,” I urged.

  “W. Lessor with these boots, those nails, and a van like you described would be Warren Lessor. The shack you’re talking about was owned by his father, Wilbur. He died about twenty or so years ago. I hate to speak poorly of the deceased, but he was a real nasty man. Warren and his cousin, Noah, are frequently in here buying all sorts of odds and ends. In fact, see that pile over there?” he asked, pointing to an area on the opposite side of the store. “That’s for them. They ordered it last week. Just came in. Warren said he’d be back this Friday to pick it up. Got a bunch of other things out back for him to come and grab too. He owns a nice chunk of land about fifteen minutes up the road. Big, white house with a porch. You can’t miss it. Look for the mailbox with the goose and gander on it, if you’re unsure. I don’t have a phone number because I don’t think they have a landline. Don’t remember if I’ve ever seen them with a cell phone. Odd men, but polite, and always pay their tab on time. Do you really think Warren or Noah had anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?” Jamison asked, taking a step back, leaning against the front counter.

  “If they didn’t take him, then they know who did,” I answered, thrilled over the wealth of knowledge this man provided in mere seconds. This was it. A strong sense of certainty we were actually onto something that would provide a means to an end surged inside.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about Warren or Noah?” Liam asked.

  “Like I said, they’re decent, quiet people. I’ve never seen them with a woman or anyone else besides each other–neither wears a ring, nor has spoken about a significant other. They pull up in the van every few weeks, usually around mid-morning, come in, shop, and if they can’t find something, they’ll ask me to order it. They have a tab started by Wilbur years and years ago, but unlike him, they hardly use it—always pay cash. Depending on how busy I am, I’ll help them load up. If items were ordered I’ll tell them when I know for sure they’ll arrive so they don’t waste a trip. Warren does mostly all of the talking. Noah is silent. Hangs behind his cousin. He may be slow or have special needs. Not sure. Warren’s been coming in here with his father since he
was knee high to a grasshopper’s behind. Not sure about other family members, Wilbur mentioned a wife who’d passed away. I assume that was Warren’s mother. Never saw him with any other children beside Warren, but that doesn’t mean anything. After Wilbur died, Warren mentioned he purchased the lot down the road. That’s when Noah started coming around. The two have been fixing it up little by little, and have been doing an excellent job. Place looks fantastic. Other than that, I don’t know much else.”

  “You were extremely helpful. I need one last thing. If Warren, Noah, or anyone else comes in here, you never saw us,” Liam said.

  “Am I, or my family, in danger?” Jamison’s expression reflected worry. If thoughts could speak, they’d be cursing him for opening the store this morning.

  “No. If Warren and Noah have been coming here for years and never caused any trouble, they wouldn’t start now. We don’t know for sure if they have anything to do with the disappearance, it’s simply a lead we’re following.” Liam paused. “Imagine being in Jillian’s shoes. Your wife goes missing. The authorities are doing next to nothing to help find her. What would you do, Jamison?”

  The elderly store owner’s eyes reflected deep sympathy and sorrow. “Good luck to you both. If I can be of any more assistance, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, placing my hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze.

  “They’ll both be here this Friday, which is tomorrow, probably between nine and nine-thirty in the morning. When there’re big orders like this, both show up. Chances are they’ll want winter items too. The forecast is calling for the first snow of the season tomorrow afternoon, and this old man’s knees confirm that. It’s going to be a big one. I can stall them if you want to check out the house. Here’s the store’s number. Call if you need anything at all. As far as I’m concerned, no one was here today,” he said, scribbling on a slip of receipt paper he pulled from the old fashion register.