Small town hick cops.
It was after 2:00 a.m., CJ guessed because he couldn't see his watch. Every contact point on his body as well as all major and minor muscle groups hurt like hell and for the last half hour he hadn't been able to move at all. A police cruiser was parked right next to the trash can where he'd dumped his dinner, the dinner he wished he'd eaten. He was not averse to retrieving it if they'd just leave.
Getting to the Big Mac was the smallest of all his problems, however. What in the hell was he going to do? It was pointless to contact Trish. They would certainly have someone parked outside her apartment, maybe even inside. She was probably completely freaked out, on the phone with her mother. He would be stupid to go there, but they had to assume he might be that stupid.
The first thing he was going to do once he could get out of the tree and to somewhere safe and hidden, was call Dan. Right now he didn't even want to turn his phone on. He sure didn't need to light up his position. He'd turned it off when he left Tucson because he didn't want to have to answer Stella's questions. Actually, he had to admit to himself, he didn't want to know if she didn't call. With his phone turned off he could go on in ignorant bliss that she was frantically worried about him, wanting to apologize for stiff-arming him in front of her nephew, wanting to beg him to come back. What the hell was she thinking right now?
Talk about stupid! He should have realized something was up when he couldn't get his trunk to open. If he had investigated it before he left and discovered the body himself... that certainly wouldn't have come off very well either. Who was going to believe him that the body was planted by the killer to turn the heat off of himself? But they'd have only circumstantial evidence, certainly less than with the dumpster because there'd be no blood, prints, hair or fluids that could be tied to him. It would certainly not be as bad as transporting a dead body through three states in the trunk of his car. And what kind of serial killer had this kind of forethought and planning, the wherewithal to pull something like this off? They were normally so focused on their obsession that they couldn't think outside themselves.
He thought about the suits who had arrived just before dark and began envisioning his face on the FBI's most wanted list as well as on the morning briefing of every law enforcement agency between here and Tucson; hell, between the Canadian and Mexican borders. And of course, with them around, just turning on his phone would light up their tracking devices.
All of a sudden the police car keeping him in place sped out of the parking lot and turned left toward city center, lights blazing, engine roaring. CJ wasted no time getting to the ground. He hobbled over to the trash can, felt into the dark space until his hand landed on a closed up bag with weight. He checked inside to ensure it was in fact a complete sandwich and fries, and not someone's half consumed discard. It was his. With dinner tucked under his arm he moved west from concealment to concealment, passing behind Schuck's Auto Supply and then a Zip Trip gas station that was way too lit up. He crossed into the Best Western parking lot, stayed close to cars, half crouched, until he came to the corner of Farm Road and Pullman Road. Ahead of him was the Palouse Mall parking lot. If it was open he might have gone into the Old Navy for a change of clothing and a jacket. Shorts and a T-shirt weren't hacking it in the chill night air. At least he had decent shoes.
The empty parking lot provided no concealment. To the right up Farm Road didn't look much better. Left would take him across Pullman Highway and into a less lighted area. That would be his direction, but first he needed to call Dan. He crouched completely out of sight amongst a group of bushes on the corner then pulled out his phone and turned it on. He punched up Dan's number and hit the call button.
"CJ! What the hell is going on?" Dan answered as though he had been holding it in his hand waiting for CJ's call. Maybe he had been.
"I was about to ask you the same thing, Detective. You impound my car and when I get it back there's a dead body in it."
"That's bullshit and you know it. Where the hell are you?"
"Can't tell you that. I'm being railroaded. Until you figure that out and catch the real killer, I'm off the grid."
"Dammit, CJ," Dan said.
"Just shut up and listen. Two mornings ago when I left Tucson my trunk was jammed closed. Key wouldn't turn. Neither the inside release or remote would work. I didn't put the pieces together at the time or even knew there were pieces to be put together. Means that in the middle of that night someone put the victim in there and then disabled the mechanism. He didn't want me discovering the body, would rather you or someone from the Tucson police make the discovery. He never counted on the fact that'd I leave town with the body so I guess that's a bonus for him. I never noticed any evidence of a break in so he knew what he was doing. Make sure someone looks for prints and any other forensics that don't belong to me."
"Turn yourself in, CJ."
"I'm being setup, Dan. You know it and I know it." CJ ended the call and powered his phone down and then sprinted across the highway, dropping to a comfortable jog down the middle of the road. When he came to a split he bore left as there were too many lights straight ahead. Trees on the right made him feel a tad more secure as they'd give him cover if any vehicles appeared. None did, however. A huge parking lot appeared on the left and then a domed stadium. He came to where a road came in from the right and from what he could tell in the moonlight, appeared to climb. Staying on the road he was on would take him back toward town center, he guessed, or into the university, both of which he didn't want. He turned right and started up the grade.
At the top of the hill he stopped to catch his breath and let his heart rate slow. He looked back across from where he'd come and could see a number of flashing blue lights west of the McDonalds, exactly where he was when he made the call to Dan. He opened his phone and removed the battery. Having it turn on by accident would be like putting a beacon on his head.
He walked for a time eating his sandwich and fries and then walked and jogged until the pavement ended. From then on he had to be real careful because even in the moonlight it would be easy on the dirt and gravel road to make a misstep and twist an ankle. He had to get off the road for cars only twice. It was the second one where there was no ditch to hide in, so he stumbled into a farmer's field and fell into whatever was growing there, no more than a foot tall. He peeked though the plants in time to see a five-pointed star on the side of the car as it went by, a deputy racing for town.
Soon after he'd turned left at another split, taking what appeared to be the road less traveled. For a half hour he remained on that road until it T'd at another road. Sand Road, the sign read. He looked left and right and then back a hundred yards to a trailer and several buildings he had passed. He went back to investigate. There were no cars so he made the assumption that there were no people, that the trailer was some kind of workday office.
He knocked and listened, prepared to bolt if there was so much as a grunt or a thump. When there was nothing he pulled a credit card from his wallet and went to work on the trailer door. Apparently there wasn't much worry about security in the boonies of Idaho because in fifteen seconds he was in.
He stood still for a time, hand on the door, listening for any sounds that would indicate that the trailer was occupied. Once fully satisfied that it was not he debated with himself about turning on the lights. After a time he decided that it wasn't worth the risk, no matter how small. As the low-setting moon was at the wrong angle, there was no hope of getting light from it, so he stumbled around the dark space, running into several chairs before he discovered a desk. The stench in the room told CJ that the regular occupants were smokers. Although he was feeling through the drawers for a flashlight, he figured his chance of coming upon a lighter were pretty good. After pawing though papers and clipboards, pens and pencils, and things he couldn't identify, he landed upon what he assumed was a carton of cigarettes in a left-hand drawer. Lying next to that were three lighters. He pulled one out and lit it.
; With that he went through all the drawers finding no flashlight and nothing else useful. Then, holding the lighter in front of him, he walked about the small space. At the end opposite the desk was a sofa with a hat rack standing next to it. He resisted the urge to lay down for a nap, going, instead, to the hat rack. On that were a couple of ball-caps, a jacket made of blue jean material, and a heavy parka. He took the jacket and a ball-cap. The ball-cap was dark red with the words Semper Fi in black. He debated taking the other one instead, but it was bright orange. In the end he put on the jacket and left both hats. Chances were the hats might be missed right away, but not the jacket until the daytime weather turned cooler.
Behind the desk sat a small refrigerator almost identical to the one in CJ's office. Inside CJ found nine cans of diet Pepsi and three more cartons of cigarettes. He debated over the Pepsi, then took one and moved the others to disguise the fact that one was missing. What he didn't want was for someone to notice that they'd had an intruder and call the police. He didn't need the authorities to even suspect in what direction he'd gone.
He started to put the lighter away and then thought to take one more look around the room. It was then that he spotted two things, the phone on the desk and the map pinned to the wall next to the door. As he approached the map he wondered who he could call. Certainly not Dan. Caller ID would nail him to this trailer. Stella? Would Dan or the FBI be monitoring her phone? Certainly she knows by now that something's up because Dan or someone would have asked her if she'd heard from him.
So he definitely couldn't call Stella. And even if he could, what would he say? What would be the point?
He studied the map for a time, figuring out that Sand Road went toward Pullman, Washington to the right and meandered back toward Moscow to the left. He didn't feel as though either option was very smart. But then was there a smart option anywhere?
Yes, there was. Get back to Tucson. Running from the law in Idaho was going to accomplish nothing, and doing unlawful things like breaking into trailers and stealing stuff wasn't going to help at all.
What the hell is he thinking? He's about to go down for multiple homicides and he's worried about a little break and enter.
First things first. Get back to Tucson, therefore, procure a car. He had more than enough cash for gas and food having pulled $500 in cash before leaving and then winning at the casino. Credit cards were useless except for opening doors with cheap locks.
He sat in the desk chair for a time pushing ideas around in his head. They all just wound up in the same bog. If he was going to procure a car, he'd have to get into a town. Moscow was out so at this point it'd have to be Pullman. He got up and stepped out onto the trailer platform. The moon was setting and it appeared there was a glow in the eastern sky. He'd run out of time getting to anywhere before daylight.
He sat on the porch step and put his head in his hands, considered turning his cell phone on and seeing how long it would take someone to show up. It was one way to get back to Tucson, though extradition might take a few days. But then he'd be stuck in jail, unable to do anything except insist that he was innocent.
He thought about Stella, wished he was spooned with her under her blankets and that the alarm clock would fail to go off. He remembered how crazy he'd gotten when she'd seemed to have gone missing and then started feeling very guilty for doing it right back at her. She'd have no clue what happened to him, would likely be going as crazy as he did. Unlike her, he didn't leave any notes or voicemails, or chicken in the refrigerator.
Now he really felt like a dope.
But of course, she now knew where he had gone. Dan certainly has talked to her. What was she thinking of him? Did she think he was guilty? Would she stand up for him? He remembered the brief call she'd made to him when she said sorry so many times, and then his return call to her voicemail where he'd told her he loved her. He looked over at the setting moon, now almost all gone, and wished he had told her that long before. Now it was too late.
He wondered if she had listened to that voicemail.
Automobile lights suddenly appeared up the road from the direction he'd come. He stepped inside the trailer, closed the door and watched out the window. The vehicle, a small pickup truck it appeared, passed on by. CJ couldn't see the intersection, but from the sound it turned right and accelerated toward Pullman.
CJ's mind went back to Stella. He considered calling her just to hear her voice, then stepping outside in the open to wait for the sheriff to show up. He could stay on the phone with her until they put him in handcuffs. At least then he’d have an opportunity to tell her directly how he felt about her. There'd be no doubt.
He touched the pouch in which his phone resided, and then drew it out. He considered it for a few seconds and then pressed the power button.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
He touched it again and waited. Still nothing. The phone was dead?
He holstered it and felt his way around the desk until his hand touched the phone. He picked it up and with slow deliberate care, punched in Stella's number, pausing on the last digit. After a half dozen heartbeats, he pushed and waited.
After one ring he got a recording. "Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please include the area code."
CJ laughed at himself, hung up and then redialed, this time using the 520 area code. Again he paused on the last digit. A stray, but important, thought kept flipping through his mind and it had to do with Stella's sister. He was certain that calling Stella on her cell phone would be equivalent to calling the FBI and telling them where to pick him up. However, what if he could get to Stella through her sister, Sara? He remembered looking up Sara's number when Stella had gone missing and wondered why he'd never made the call. It'd have been so simple and would have solved everything.
His mind suddenly became clear. He hit the disconnect and then started dialing the number he'd looked up in Stella's address book. For some crazy reason he could actually remember it. He dialed the complete number without pausing and then waited through three rings. He thought about the time and was prepared to be very apologetic.
"Hello!" It was a man's voice, Sara's husband of course.
CJ struggled for a few seconds to remember his name. "Bill?"
"Yes."
"This is CJ Washburn, a friend of Stella's. I'm really sorry to..."
"Hold on."
The line went silent and CJ tried to guess what the hell was going on. Was he fetching Sara, calling the FBI on another line, or did he just plain hang up not wanting to get involved with an accused serial killer.
The silence hung on and on until suddenly, "Clint!"
"Stella?" CJ couldn't believe his ears.
"Where are you? We're coming to get you."
"I'm in Idaho."
"I know that. Where in Idaho, exactly?"
"I don't understand. What do you mean coming to get me. How you going to do that?"
"Bill's plane."
And then CJ remembered. Bill was a pilot, owned a small business flying parts and people around the country.
"We'll be there in seven hours. We just need a place to pick you up. We've got to get you back down here so you can help fix this. You're being framed."
The relief that passed through CJ left him almost wanting to cry. His biggest fear was that Stella wouldn't believe him, that she'd turn her back on him. "I'm sorry I left without telling you first," he said.
"Damn it, Clint. That's not important now. Do you know how to tell us where you are?"
CJ pulled the lighter out of the desk drawer and stepped over to the map, pulling the phone cord behind him. "Yes." He flicked the lighter and studied the map again. "I'm at the intersection of Brown Road and Sand Road, south of Moscow."
She repeated that to someone there and said to CJ, "Hang on. Bill's looking it up on Google Earth. Everything went nuts down here when you left. There was an anonymous 911 call that someone saw you loading a body into the trunk of your car."
&n
bsp; "That's a flat out lie."
"Of course it is. Dan's chasing down his suspicions."
"Dan? He doesn't believe it?"
"Of course not. We know the body was planted, but Dan has to do what he has to do, especially with the FBI running lead on it. Anyway, they'd have gotten you when you filled with gas in Boise, but someone dropped the ball. I don't think they had their shit together yet. It was when you checked into the hotel and then eluded them that everything went nuts. Accusations and blame were flying everywhere."
"I suppose you even know what I had for dinner last night."
"Big Mac and Fries. Large drink."
CJ just blinked.
"Dan's been keeping me informed. It's only a matter of time before they find you unless we can get you out of there. It's like a contest now; FBI, county sheriff, Moscow police. Each one of them wants to wipe the pie off their face with your collar."
"So it's just you and Dan on my side."
"And Bill and Sara. Yes, that's about it. Just a second."
There were some mummers in the background. CJ looked out the window. It was the leading edge of dawn.
"Okay. We've got you. Are you in that trailer just north of the intersection?"
CJ looked up at the ceiling. How in the hell? "Yes. I don't think I can stay here too much longer."
"Go to the intersection and cross over to the south side of Sand Road. There appears to be a drainage or creek that goes off to the left. Follow that until you get into the trees, a hundred yards, maybe less. Get down and stay there."
"Okay."
After another conference with Bill, Stella said, "Bill is thinking that we'll be there somewhere in the noon hour. We'll refuel once along the way, will plan to pick you up with a light fuel load, but enough that we can be well out of the area before having to refuel again."
Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1) Page 7