Suggestion of Death

by Susan P. Baker

  He took his food to a corner booth where he could see both entrances. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he would say, it was time for a confrontation. She either knew about the men being killed, or she didn’t.

  Keeping an eye on the entrances, Jim bit into his chicken sandwich, devouring it in less than half a dozen bites. He had stuffed fries into his mouth and was washing them down with a large Dr. Pepper when he saw her. She waved, but didn’t smile. She wore jeans, a sleeveless top, and a pair of running shoes. She got into the food line. A few minutes later, after she had filled a Styrofoam plate with salad, she slid into the seat opposite him.

  He’d thought she might offer her cheek for a kiss, but she didn’t. Something not unlike hostility hung in the air between them. Though he’d planned to let her eat before he questioned her, he couldn’t contain himself. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.” She squeezed salad dressing onto her salad and mixed it with a plastic fork.

  He watched her, his mouth open, waiting for a response. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Are the kids all right?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t they be?” She plunged a wad of lettuce and tomato into her mouth.

  “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Patty stared at his face as she chewed. After swallowing, she said, “In regard to what?”

  “Are you deliberately being evasive?” He wished now he’d taken something for his headache. He could feel himself squinting from the pain and light.

  “God. Give me a break, will you? You yell at me on the phone. I come to meet you, and immediately you begin yelling at me in public. I haven’t had time to be evasive.”

  “I’m not yelling.” He clamped his teeth together and rubbed his jaw.

  “Well, it sure sounds like it from this end.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” Jim breathed in and out slowly. He sat back and spread his arms across the back of the booth, drumming his fingers. He kept quiet for a few minutes while she ate. Finally, he said, “Did you see in the paper where they found a man’s body in a car trunk?”

  Pat shook her head and swallowed from her drink.

  “I knew him.” He picked up his sandwich wrapper and twisted it tightly.

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes followed his.

  “What I mean is, I knew him from the courthouse. You probably knew him, too. He worked in the district clerk’s office.”

  “Really?” Her face blanched. “What was his name?”

  “Noel Wannamaker. The tall, young fella who sat near the front counter.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I remember him.”

  Jim didn’t think she sounded too shocked, or sorry either, for that matter.

  “Do they know who did it?”

  Why was he not surprised by that question? He weighed the answer he wanted to give before settling on a different one. “Apparently not.”

  She unwrapped a package of crackers, her face drawn into a scowl. Crumbling them over her salad, she mixed again, careful not to spill any over the side of the Styrofoam platter. Seemed like she was stalling. Seemed like everything she did, every little movement, took a long time, but then, she wasn’t the one who felt a sense of urgency, of panic, he was.

  “I’ve been doing some research.” His eyes twitched with fatigue. He could use some eye drops.

  “About your article thing? Child support?”

  “I guess you could say that.” He wanted to scream accusations at her. He wanted her to scream denials back, but somehow it wasn’t happening. “Pat. Men are dying. I mean, fathers who owe back child support.” He clutched his head, his elbows on the table.

  She didn’t blink. “What do you mean they’re dying?”

  He knew he should choose his words carefully, but somehow they just spilled out. “Somebody is killing them, and I think you know something about it.”

  She choked on her food. “Me?” It took a few moments for her to stop coughing. “What, you think I’m killing them?” She laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh, rather an angry you’ve-got-to-be-out-of-your-mind laugh.

  “All of them are related to your women’s group—WiNGS. There’s a connection. There’s got to be.”

  “Oh, that’s crazy.” Her brows knitted together, her eyes slanting down at her plate. “How could WiNGS have anything to do with it?”

  “Someone in your group—” He stopped before he said too much. He couldn’t tell her everything. He wanted to trust her but didn’t feel he could. She was the woman he loved, but trust, after what he’d read at the library, was another matter.

  She stabbed at her food, her head shaking. “Where in the world did you get a crazy idea like that?”

  “It’s possible they’re doing it. I’ve thought it all out.”

  “I don’t know what this is really about.” She sipped from her drink again, just as calm as could be. “Where did this come from?”

  His next statement was calculated to get a rise out of her. “I think the judge is involved in it, too.”

  “Judge Lopez? Now I know you’re nuts. What’s happened to you in the last couple of days?” Her tone turned thin and sharp as a razor blade.

  “There’s something about her. Remember the first time we were there? She told Mr. Johnson that his kids would be better off if he were dead.”

  “I don’t remember that.” She stirred her salad again and kept her eyes on her food.

  “Well, she did. I think they’re all a bunch of man-haters up there.”

  “Well, I think you’re losing it. You’d have to be out of your mind to believe Judge Lopez could be involved in anything illegal.” She wiped her nose with her napkin and sipped from her drink again. “She’s a very honest and honorable woman.”

  “Hah! From what I’ve seen in that courtroom, I’m convinced she’s involved. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed the way she talks to some of those people.”

  “Get off it, Jim. You’re dreaming.”

  He reached across the table and pulled on her forearm, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. I’m serious.”

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you. If we can’t talk about something else, I’m leaving.” She scooted to the edge of the booth and stood.

  “Why are you being evasive?” Jim jumped up and leaned into her face. “You do know something.” He loved her and wanted her to be innocent. He loved her, and yet he believed her to be complicit in the conspiracy.

  “Shh,” she whispered and glanced about at the people seated nearby. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—what you’re getting into.”

  Jim clasped her shoulder. “Am I in danger? Are they after me because I’m on to them?” He had another thought. “Or am I on the list because I owe you so much money?”

  She wrenched away. “Who else knows about this?”

  Every muscle in his middle wrapped itself into a hard knot. She was confirming his worst fears. He stepped closer and leaned over her. “We can leave town. It’s not too late. Go get the kids and we can move to Dallas. I got the job I wanted. We could go right away.”

  She backed away. “I feel like I’m being confronted with the ravings of a lunatic. Something’s happened to you since Tuesday morning. You don’t know what you’re saying, Jim.” She looked at the people sitting at the tables on both sides of her escape route and then turned and made for the door.

  Jim cut through some tables and caught up with her in the parking lot. “It’s true, isn’t it? And you’re involved.” His heart pounded from chasing her, from confronting her, from the realization that she’d gotten involved in Bitsy Wink’s murderous activities.

  “Get away from me, Jim.” She took long strides toward her car, close to running.

  “Stay and talk to me, Patty.” He followed close behind. “We can talk it out. I can help you.” He grabbed her hand.

  She fumbled with her keys and finally got the door open. She jerked her arm away. “Just get
away from me,” she yelled. “I can’t believe you think that I or Judge Lopez would be involved in such a thing.”

  She got into her little red sedan and slammed the door in his face. Jim tried to open it, but Pat locked it before he could pull it open. He banged on the window as she started the car. “I just want to talk to you. I can help you before it’s too late. I can protect you.”

  Pat backed out of the space, pulling Jim along since he wouldn’t release the door handle. He heard her muffled voice through the rolled up window. “Get away.” When she drove forward, he ran alongside until she was going too fast for him.

  He let go and watched her drive away. He did sound like a lunatic. No one who hadn’t done the research, no one who hadn’t found Noel’s body, no one who hadn’t been on his side of the courtroom and seen the look in Bitsy’s eyes would get it.

  Deciding to follow her, he ran up the hill to the library as fast as he could. He hoped he wasn’t already too late. If he could catch her before she told anyone, especially Bitsy, that he was on to them, he could—what? He didn’t know. But something.

  After he got the Mustang turned around, Jim could see the back of her car far in the distance at the bottom of the hill. He wished he’d driven down to Wendy’s instead of walking. He raced after her. Maybe she would talk to him if they weren’t in the public eye. He’d approached it all wrong. He’d been too direct, too abrupt. He should have eased into a discussion rather than directly accusing her.

  Jim drove down the hill after her and braked as he went around a slight curve. His brakes didn’t work right. He pumped them. After a couple of jerky movements, they felt like they were going to catch, but they didn’t. Fear wrapped its fist around his throat.

  Patty had set him up. No. She wouldn’t have tampered with his brakes. She’d arranged for him to go to Wendy’s just so someone else could. No, she wouldn’t do that. But—no time to think it through. His car gained speed as he careened down the hill, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  His parking brake was out. She knew that. He’d intended to get it repaired after the time he came out of a convenience store where he’d had to park on a slope and found his car on the other side of the street. He’d been lucky it hadn’t hit anyone and meant to get it fixed. But he hadn’t. Too expensive. He stomped on the brake pedal again. It went to the floor.

  What to do? There were no hills going back up the other way steep enough to slow him down. A few slopes, but basically sloping curves. And he was gaining speed every moment he spent thinking.

  He could steer into a telephone pole, a car, anything to stop his momentum. He’d be one more death in a line of car accidents involving fathers. Yes, Patty had set him up. With his demise, they’d get away with another murder. But he wasn’t ready to die. No. He refused to give up so easily.

  Gripping the steering wheel with all his strength as if it would make any difference, he swerved into the left lane, narrowly missing rear-ending a young kid in a Toyota pickup. He ran a red light at the bottom of Mueller’s Hill, but it had just turned green the other way and, thankfully, no one jumped the gun. He was fast approaching the center of town full of shops and tourists and children.

  He had one chance, a turnoff before the main drag. There was a mild curving slope and a small bridge over the river. After that a park.

  He prayed no one would be sitting and dangling their feet over the side of the bridge. It was prohibited, and there were signs, but locals liked to watch the water under the bridge and didn’t give a damn about signs.

  And tourists. Tourists walked around the downtown area—or what Angeles residents considered the downtown. Tourists would hang off the side of the bridge and gather along the grassy embankment to rest.

  There was a small picnic area on the other side of the bridge. A patch of grass and a patch of gravel for parking and, if Jim remembered correctly, a couple of telephone pole sized logs separating the parking area from the picnic area. If that didn’t stop his car, he’d hurtle into the picnic area, a baseball field, and lots of trees.

  He would steer across the bridge, swerve over the curb, onto the grass into the parking lot and, hopefully, come to a stop before he hit the logs. At any rate, he was sure the logs would stop him. If not, God help anyone picnicking in his path.

  He leaned on his horn, warning everyone to run. If they didn’t, well, he couldn’t think about that. This was his only hope.

  As he came around the bend, adrenaline shot into his hands like sparks. He made the curve on the approach to the bridge. The side of the Mustang scraped a post, but he was able to maintain a straight line across.

  Twisting the wheel, Jim pointed the car toward the picnic area. The Mustang left the road going so fast he didn’t know how anything would stop it. Up ahead was only more slope—down another tiny hill then the tables.

  Thank goodness, no people sat at the tables. As the car bumped over the rough, grassy embankment, Jim bounced and lost his grip on the steering wheel. He shot toward the parking lot and the logs, glad his seatbelt held him down. He wished he had a new car with a driver’s side air bag.

  He shut off the ignition, threw off his glasses, and covered his face with his arms. The impact smashed his chest into the steering wheel and his forearms into his face. The car slowed considerably but did not cease its forward momentum. For a moment, he didn’t understand what was happening then realized his car was pushing the log along in the front of it. The Mustang had to run out of steam. After some time, it went up on its front two wheels, throwing him forward, and fell back again, finally coming to a complete stop with a dull thud.

  Chapter Twenty

  In the aftermath, after a quick adrenaline rush at the realization that he was alive and not bleeding anywhere, Jim opened his eyes and peered at two small reflections of himself in someone’s mirrored sunglasses. Focusing on the person behind them, he realized they were on the face of a woman. Her finger made small circles in the air. “Roll down your window,” she said in a muffled voice.

  He didn’t know who she was but did as he was told. The seatbelt cradled his body. He was all in one piece, but his chest hurt and pain radiated from his entire being like a bad sunburn. Easing his left arm to his side, he cranked the window down. A warm breeze blew onto his face.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Her breath smelled faintly of coffee. She wore a uniform. A police uniform. Her nameplate read Pratka.

  Jim inventoried his body parts. “I’m not sure yet. I may have passed out.” In addition to his aching chest and arms and hands, his shoulders felt stiff and his neck throbbed. He eased back in the seat until he sat upright.

  “You probably shouldn’t move until the medics get here.” She squatted, holding on to the edge of the window. “Where does it hurt?” She pulled her sunglasses down and peered over them with startling pale blue eyes. Her blond hair was swept back from her face. A wrinkle of concern creased the middle of her forehead between her eyebrows.

  Jim grunted. “Where doesn’t it hurt?” He rolled his head around and knew instantly he’d made a mistake. “That’s going to feel worse later. I feel claustrophobic though. I need to get out of the car.” He groped around for his glasses.

  “I don’t think you should try to stand yet, sir. Just rest there until the paramedics get here.”

  “Naw. I’ll be fine if I can just get out and walk around a bit.”

  “I’d advise against it, but it’s your body.” Her voice held a warning. She stood and backed away a few feet. She wore the same blue uniform as male officers, down to pants with a black stripe down the outside, gun, and billy. “When you’re ready, I’ll help you but I really think you should wait. An ambulance is on its way.” Her stance was that of a woman accustomed to getting her way, legs spread, hands on hips.

  “My neck will probably be stiff tomorrow, but other than that and a few bruises on my chest and forearms from the seatbelt and steering wheel, I feel okay. Really.” He was lucky his aging seat belt had held
, otherwise he could easily have been thrown through the windshield. He tried to get a deep breath but fear and frustration stifled him. Leaning his head against the headrest, he closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw the car had come to a halt at the baseball field backstop. An upturned picnic table and bench were jammed between the front of the car and the chain link fencing. A black log was pushed up against the picnic bench. If the backstop hadn’t been there, no telling how far the momentum would have taken him.

  Several people stood watching, their faces illuminated with excitement, chattering back and forth like people at a spectator sport. Could any of them have had a hand in his accident? He scrutinized the crowd, especially the women’s faces, not recognizing anyone. Not that he really expected to although folklore said perpetrators often hung around the scene of a crime.

  He unsnapped his seatbelt and opened the car door. Easing from under the steering wheel, he turned in the seat, feeling every bit like an arthritic-ridden old man. Officer Pratka watched with crossed arms as Jim stepped onto solid ground and put weight on his feet. His knees gave way, and the blood rushed from his head. Pratka sprang to help him as he grabbed the door.

  Pratka’s strong grip stopped him from hitting the ground. “You’d better get your land legs for a minute. Sit back down.”

  He sat sideways in the driver’s seat and hung his head between his knees. Life was good. To be only shaken and stirred, not hurt, was good. Breathing was good. His literary side thought his feelings were trite and clichéd, but he didn’t give a damn. He could have been killed. Instead, he was in a park of green trees and arid summer air. How glorious it was to be there even with a cop studying him. He grinned at Pratka who was not grinning back. “How’d you get here so fast? Or am I right that I passed out for a while?”

  “A city crew working under the bridge called it in when you went crashing by. I was the closest.”

  “Oh, cause this is the fastest I’ve ever heard of a cop responding to a call.” He rested his elbows on his thighs and peered up at her.