The razor wire was sharp and a cut or two in the wrong place would bring him down, slashed and scarred for life, unable to continue. He had to be careful.
As he neared the top of the fence he clung on with one hand, tossed the leather onto the top, covering the razors, and then set the foam over that. It balanced precariously as he dug in his pocket for the cord from the window blinds. Holding one end of the cord, he tossed the other end over the cushion, drew it back through the links, and tied the ends together. It was hard to do with one hand, but he finally managed.
With his toes and both hands now free, he climbed up a few more inches, and with great difficulty, managed to pull his body onto the foam. The razor wire cut through the tough leather at one spot, and he felt a sharp pain in his side. He heaved again and he was over, landing on the hard ground on freedom’s side of the fence.
The wind was knocked out of him. He landed on his back, couldn’t breathe for a while, but nothing seemed broken. He chanced a look toward the guard tower. He couldn’t tell which way they were looking, so best not waste any time.
He was in pain all over, his hand, his thumb, his back, and his head still throbbed. But he was free.
He removed the shoes from his pocket, put them on, and dashed to the left, following the fence for fifty feet, keeping low. He was out of sight of the guard tower now, so he turned and raced across the open field surrounding the prison complex on all sides.
There was no doubt once they discovered his escape the tracking dogs would be hot on his trail. Despite the pain, he ran without stopping for a good twenty minutes, always listening for the sound of the dogs’ baying.
Finally, in the distance, a farmhouse came into view. Another unknown. He had to approach the house without being seen. The kitchen was probably in the back, the living room in front, and they were the most likely rooms anyone might be. He circled around and approached the house from the side.
There was a garage at that end of the old farmhouse, a broken down thing, and, he assumed, not very secure. He was counting on that. He crept to the side door and smiled to himself as he pushed it open.
He stepped in and looked around. What farmer doesn’t have children at one point in his life? And what farm doesn’t have a bicycle in some shape or another? Hardly an unknown. A bit uncertain perhaps, but he wasn’t surprised to see one tucked at the end of the workbench covered with an old blanket and a powdering of dust.
It probably hadn’t been used for years, but it looked to be in good working order. They would never miss it—it was likely discarded by an owner who’d outgrown it. The tires were in reasonable shape, but after years of disuse most of the air had seeped out. He scrounged around under the workbench, came up with an air pump, and filled the tires.
He rolled it to the door, pushed it outside, and hopped on, pedaling furiously across the front lawn, up the tree-lined driveway, and onto the gravel road. He glanced back. He hadn’t roused any attention as far as he could tell.
It was vital he stay out of sight. His orange jumpsuit was a dead giveaway, and if seen, he would be as good as caught. He’d hoped to find some clothes hanging on a clothesline outside the farmhouse, but that was not to be, and he didn’t want to take the time to sneak inside and see what he could find. Time was precious and short.
He started as he heard the baying of hounds, far in the distance, coming from the direction of the prison. They’d discovered his escape and the dogs were let loose. The trail would stop at the garage, but he had to get moving.
He continued down the shoulder as the sound of the hounds grew closer. They would be shutting down the roads soon, setting up roadblocks, and scouring houses in the area. But he wasn’t going to take the roads. Five minutes later he saw what he was looking for. It was a pathway into a farmer’s field, an entrance allowing the farmer access from the road.
He spun down the path and continued across the field. It was rough going with the bicycle, its large wheels bumping over clots of dirt and pitted areas as he made his way across the rough ground. The throbbing pain in his left hand and the cuffs still fastened to his right only added to the difficulty.
Soon there was a dip in the terrain. He spun down the grade, now out of sight of the dogs and their handlers, and had left no trail. He was going to make it—of that there was no doubt.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, 12:55 PM
ANNIE SAT AT HER desk in the office finishing up some notes on the recovered automobiles, and preparing a report for the police. She was pleased to discover, for some of the vehicles, the insurance companies offered a reward for the safe return of the stolen property. They could always use the extra money.
“Annie, come in here. Quick.” It was Jake calling from the living room.
Annie slid her chair back, stood, and went to the doorway. “What is it?”
Jake’s eyes were on the television, and he motioned frantically with one hand.
She stepped into the room, dropped into her easy chair, and leaned forward. She watched the last half of a commercial and then the news anchor appeared on the screen, shuffling papers while a catchy staccato played, growing louder with each note, then fading to silence. The anchor spoke:
“This is Channel 7 Action News at One. Our top story. Richmond Hill is brought to full attention as a serial killer who held the town hostage a short while ago escapes from a maximum security prison.
“With the full story, here’s Lisa Krunk.”
A news reporter appeared on the screen, her long nose almost buried in the soft foam rubber of the mike, her overly made-up face sporting tight lips. She stood in front of an institution made of brick and concrete, surrounded by high chain-link fences, a guard tower visible in the background.
“I’m standing here in front of Haddleburg Maximum Security Penitentiary. Earlier today, twenty-five year old Jeremy Spencer, a serial killer the citizens of Richmond Hill will remember well, successfully escaped from this institution.”
Annie saw behind Lisa’s feigned concern to a smug interior. They’d had several run-ins with Lisa Krunk in the past, and the journalist considered herself in the running for a Pulitzer someday. Annie suspected the woman was secretly pleased with the escape; it could result in some sensational stories she would deem worthy of her attention.
The screen split, a photo of Jeremy on one side, Lisa on the other, her wide mouth flapping as she talked:
“The prison K-9 unit was immediately deployed to follow Spencer’s trail but it ran cold at a farmhouse two miles from where I’m standing. Police have set up roadblocks in the area and the RCMP has been notified. At this point, there are no indications where the convict may be headed.
“Spencer escaped the building through an unbarred window and successfully scaled the fence surrounding the prison.
“Officials have expressed concern he may return to this city and citizens are warned to be on the lookout and to notify police immediately should they sight him or have any news as to the whereabouts of this dangerous killer.”
Annie looked over toward Jake. He sat on the edge of the couch, his mouth hanging open.
Lisa concluded her newscast:
“As you know, during Spencer’s murderous rampage, I followed the story relentlessly, and my own efforts helped to bring this killer to justice the first time. You can rest assured I’ll do all I can again to assist the police in their manhunt.
“I’ll bring you more on this breaking story as it happens. In an exclusive report, I’m Lisa Krunk, live for Channel 7 Action News.”
Jake and Annie gazed at each other, speechless, as the news anchor moved on to the next story. Finally, Jake switched off the TV, sat back, and exhaled a long breath. Annie slouched back in her easy chair trying to digest the disturbing news.
She was stunned. The serial killer they’d risked their own lives to catch a short time ago was on the loose again. The news brought many questions to her mind. Would he continue with his terror, or stay out of sight? Would the
police be successful in tracking him down? And, would he return to Richmond Hill?
Finally, Jake said, “I wonder if Hank knows about this.”
“I’m sure he would know immediately. And you can bet he’ll be contacting Amelia and Jenny right away. He’ll need to secure their safety.”
Jake nodded. “He’ll probably put a 24-hour watch on their home.”
“It’s not likely Jeremy would abduct her again,” Annie said. “He never harmed her before, but still …”
Jake looked at Annie, a deep concern showing in his eyes. “I’m worried about you as well.”
“And what about yourself? Don’t forget, he tried to kill you.”
In the wrong place at the wrong time, sixteen-year-old Jenny was abducted by the serial killer when she discovered his identity. During the Lincolns’ investigation, Annie came too close to the truth and was taken captive as well. In an attempt to save them both, Jake had put his own life at risk.
Annie also felt concern for any possible future victims. Due to Jeremy’s twisted sense of morality, anyone could be in danger.
Jake seemed to sense her unease and tried to put her mind at rest. “They’ll catch him.”
Annie wasn’t so sure. Though Jeremy wasn’t a mastermind he had a way of thinking through his plans that made him unpredictable, and extremely dangerous.
“I’ll give Hank a call,” Jake said, and reached for his cell phone.
Annie wandered back into the office and sat at her desk. She searched online for any other stories regarding Jeremy’s whereabouts, perhaps more up to date than Lisa’s broadcast, but nothing new was reported.
She tried to get back to work in an attempt to brush the disturbing situation from her mind, but found it impossible to concentrate.
Chapter 10
Tuesday, 2:41 PM
JEREMY KEPT mainly to the fields during his long journey, occasionally taking to the back roads for a short period when it appeared safe. It wasn’t until he neared the suburbs, running out of farms and dirt roads, he decided it was time to find some nondescript clothing.
He was reaching familiar territory. He lived near Richmond Hill most of his life and he knew of a farm where an elderly couple once lived. The old man now passed on, and if things hadn’t changed, the widow still lived there on her own.
He approached the house from a fallow field at one side, left his bicycle behind a hedge, and crept up to the front window. The old woman sat on a stuffed chair, her face glued to the television.
He went around behind the house and swung open the unlocked back door to the kitchen. The television blared in the other room. That was good; the old woman must be half deaf and would never hear him.
He stole down the hallway, took the set of stairs leading up, and opened the first door. It was a bedroom. It appeared to be the one she used. A quick look through the dressers and closet didn’t reveal what he wanted. The floor boards creaked as he moved down the hallway to the next room.
Stacks of cardboard boxes were piled in the corner, neatly labeled, and filled with clothing. The packrat had kept everything. He selected a baggy pair of jeans, a checkered button-down shirt, and a faded baseball cap. All of the shoes were too big on him so he decided to stick to the canvas sneakers the prison had so nicely provided him with.
He stole back the way he came, wondering if it was ok to steal from the dead. He decided it was.
He changed into the clothes behind the hedge where he’d deposited the bicycle, dug a hole in the dirt and buried his old orange suit, and then hopped on his bike and headed away.
He was anxious to find Moe, but to find him he needed to locate Uriah Hubert. It was getting hard to find a phone booth these days, hence finding a phone book was nearly impossible.
He assumed his face would be all over the news by now. As long as he kept it hidden, the baseball cap he wore, along with his small size, and the bicycle he rode, he could pass as a youth. It appeared school was out for the day and there were a lot of kids on bikes. He was just one of many.
Moe said Uriah lived in the projects, the government housing north of town. They were usually a close-knit bunch and perhaps once there the right question to the right person would suffice.
His hair was longer since his last days of freedom, and his whiskers, though not long, were now coarse and black. He hoped it would disguise him for now, at least until he found a better way.
He kept his hat low over his eyes and needed to ask three separate people before anyone knew where Uriah Hubert lived. Nobody recognized him. Perhaps they hadn’t heard yet, or didn’t watch the news around here.
Uriah Hubert lived in an ancient tenement building, run down, and surrounded by cast-offs of all kinds. Every square inch of the decaying brick wall, as high as could be reached, was painted by graffiti artists and taggers.
A group of lounging hoods watched him curiously as he pushed open the creaky door of the building and rolled his bike inside. He hoped his transportation would still be there when he needed it again. There was no directory in what passed for a lobby, and no names on any of the apartments.
He tapped on the first door. “Is this where Uriah Hubert lives?” he asked a decrepit old man when the door opened.
The man raised a thumb. “Upstairs.”
“Which apartment?”
“Upstairs.” And the door closed.
Jeremy took the steps upward and knocked on the door at the top of the steps. It was eventually answered by a man wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. His belly flopped over top of the waistline, his hair uncombed, an unlit cigarette drooping from his mouth.
“Uriah Hubert?”
The man glared. “Who’s asking?”
“A friend of Moe’s.”
“Friend of Moe’s, huh. What d’you want?”
Jeremy remained patient. “I’m here to see Moe.”
“Not here right now. Come back later.” The door began to close.
“My name’s Jeremy. Did Moe mention me?”
Uriah grinned, his smoke-stained teeth lined in a crooked collection. He rubbed at his hair. “Why didn’t you say so before?” He swung the door open and stepped back. “Moe said you might be comin’. Didn’t know it would be so soon.”
Jeremy thanked him and stepped into the apartment. He was hit immediately by the smell of human sweat and stale cigarette smoke. A half empty pizza container lay on a wooden box passing as a coffee table. The cracked linoleum flooring needed a mop, or at least, a good sweeping. Two or three serviceable chairs were scattered around, a couch that bulged stuffing and springs was tucked under the grimy window, and in the corner sat a brand new sixty-inch television.
Uriah waved toward the couch. “Rest yourself.”
Jeremy sat carefully on the edge of the couch and watched as Uriah perched on one of the wooden chairs, lit his cigarette, and looked at his visitor.
“How’s everything at Haddleburg?” Uriah asked.
“Have you been there?”
“Long time ago. Fixed up my life now.”
Jeremy shrugged. “I guess it’s the same as it’s always been. Things don’t change much inside.”
“Yeah. That’s what Moe said.” He pointed to the pizza. “You hungry?”
Jeremy looked at the dried out food. He hesitated and then picked out a slice. “Thank you. I am rather hungry. I surely am.” He hadn’t eaten since the night before, and though the pizza didn’t look especially inviting, he managed to down it while Uriah watched.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as the door burst open. Moe stood in the doorway. He blinked a couple of times and then ambled in, a huge grin on his homely face. “Hi, Little Buddy,” he said.
Jeremy stood and subjected himself to a smothering hug. He related the story of his escape, his journey back to town, and his plans for the future, while Moe and Uriah listened intently.
“You can stay here till you get yourself some digs,” Uriah said.
“You can sleep on the cou
ch,” Moe offered. “I can use the floor. There’s only one bedroom, and that’s Uriah’s.”
“That would be good,” Jeremy said. “That would be really good.”
“What’re your plans?” Moe asked, as he dropped heavily onto the couch beside Jeremy.
Jeremy looked at his friend, hesitated, then squinted at Uriah. “I have an errand. Would you have a gun I can borrow?”
Uriah frowned at the question. Finally, he spoke slowly. “I got a piece but I ain’t used it for a long spell. Like I said, I changed my life.” He sat back and scratched his chin. “Guess you could have it, but you can’t say where you got it.”
“I won’t.”
Uriah left the room and returned a minute later with a revolver, spinning the cylinder with the thumb of one hand, a box of cartridges in the other. He handed the weapon to Jeremy and set the bullets beside the pizza box. He leaned over and frowned. “Your thumb looks pretty nasty. All swollen up like that. You better do something for it.”
Jeremy tucked the pistol behind his belt and said, “Thank you for the gun. Do you have any ice?”
“Sure do. And I can wrap your thumb up for you or it ain’t never gonna heal.” He pointed. “If you wanna, I can get those cuffs off, too.”
“Thank you,” Jeremy said. “That would be very kind of you. Very kind, indeed.”
Chapter 11
Tuesday, 4:49 PM
ANNIE WAS IN THE kitchen, putting together a garden salad to go along with the barbecued steak they planned for dinner. Jake went to Mortinos to pick up the meat, taking Matty with him.
She looked out the kitchen window. The sun was beginning to set, barely peeking over the tops of the towering maple trees lining the rear of their back yard, shades of red and orange coloring the patches of clouds in the late afternoon sky.
Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6) Page 4