by V. B. Tenery
With every hour that passed, Matt’s frustration mounted. He’d had her picture flashed on local news outlets, and two of his men checked car rentals, taxicabs and flight schedules. Part of his responsibility as a cop. He’d known it was a wasted effort. And he was right.
Matt called Seth Davidson to meet him at church that Sunday morning, before services. They’d knelt at the altar and prayed for Sara’s safety. No time to stay over for church. The first forty-eight hours after abduction were crucial. Each minute that passed lessened the odds of finding her alive.
****
Sara whacked the doorframe with her palm in frustration. The salty taste of blood on her tongue told her she’d bitten her bottom lip. Fighting back tears, she lowered herself to the last step. Panic and despair was the enemy. Remain calm. Stay focused.
Maddie or Matthew Foley would start a search for her. How they would find her, she had no clue. Even she didn’t know where she was.
Chin in her hands, she refocused on the problem at hand.
Someone placed candles here, for power failures. They must have provided some means to light them. She just had to find the matches, a lighter, or whatever. No matter how long it took. She rose to her feet, using the wall for support, and started back around the room.
Sara slipped the candles into the sweater pocket and retraced her steps, checking above her head for shelves. She felt along the partition as high as she could reach until her arms ached, then felt stupid. A light switch would do her little good. It would be useless without the generator.
She passed the table and sofa again, finally drawn back to the refrigerator. On impulse, she stopped and checked the top. Her fingers closed around a large square box.
“Yes!” She slid the top back and fingered the wooden sticks.
For a fraction of a second, she paused––afraid to strike the match. What if she felt the heat but couldn’t see the flame? She removed the candles from her pocket, gripped the match in her other hand, and sat on the floor.
Pushing her fear deep inside, she drew the matchstick across the side of the box. The light flared in a bright blue and yellow flame. Nothing had ever looked so beautiful. With a trembling hand, she lit the wick.
Hope welled inside her. She had a fighting chance to survive this trial.
The candlelight renewed her courage. Things were looking up. A glance at her wristwatch gave her the time, 8:15. Morning or evening? No way to tell.
Since Josh’s death, she had gone through the motions of living. Going to her job, working the bus ministry, just putting in her time. If she survived this ordeal, she would do better. She’d raise those wonderful children God had brought into her life, with unconditional love and understanding.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Sara scanned the room. The frosty dungeon was a storm cellar, about twenty by fifteen feet. One room with a door to a small bathroom she’d somehow missed earlier. The switch she couldn’t find was a cord tied to a bare bulb in the ceiling. As expected, when she jerked the string, nothing happened.
On a bathroom shelf, she found a small battery-operated radio. She pulled it down and pressed the on button. Static filled the small space. She tuned in to a local talk show. The familiar voice of the host dispelled her sense of isolation. It also gave her the time and day. Saturday evening. She had been here since Friday night.
Knees weak, she moved to the cabinet, pulled down a cup, and filled it with water from the sink. The cool liquid soothed her parched throat, but it made her colder. She’d give a thousand dollars for a cup of hot tea with honey to ease her frayed nerves and warm her body.
Thirst quenched, she let the tallow drip into another cup, then set the candle inside. The wax would hold it upright after it hardened.
Sara moved towards the hide-a-bed sofa. She pulled the bed out and found two blankets and a pillow on the mattress. She retrieved the cover, and let the bed drop back into the base with a cloud of dust that filled the close space with the musty smell of rat droppings and damp fabric. She brushed away as much dust as possible from the couch, and wrapped the blankets around her shoulders. Please don’t let there be spiders, she thought.
Now to see if there was food in the cabinets. When she opened the doors, a fair stock of staples appeared. At first glance, it looked to be mostly soup and beans. Unappetizing, but she could exist on them for a while.
Satisfied that her survival needs were met, Sara’s mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps she could dig out with the tools, or maybe unlock or pry the door loose.
She tackled the door again. Using the tools at the top of the stairs, she began to work on the doorknob. The screw heads on the knob were Phillips, and the only screwdriver she’d found was a flat-head. She gave it a try anyway, before finally admitting defeat. With the claw end of the hammer, she tried to pry the knob plate off. No luck.
After an hour, exhaustion overcame her. The knob had loosened but was nowhere near ready to come off. She stopped. Her head throbbed and nausea swept over her. She’d try again after she rested.
It was after midnight when disappointment slowed her steps as she walked back down the stairs. She lay on the sofa, and wrapped herself in the covering. Welcome warmth seeped into her body.
The need for rest overshadowed the smell of the blankets.
****
The muffled sound of thunder filtered into the cellar along with the sounds of raindrops splashing against the ground above her. She had slept eight hours. Her eyelids seemed weighted. She let them close, sleepy in the soft candlelight. Her mind drifted off into a gentle, quiet place.
She awoke hours later to the sound of drip, drip, drip. Her fingers touched the floor.
Water.
The cellar had a leak somewhere.
What next? Along with darkness and cold, she could now add wet. Could pestilence be far behind?
A glance at her watch told her it was Sunday evening. Grabbing the candle, she made her way to the bathroom on shaky legs. She washed her face in the cold water and dried it off with toilet paper. Her reflection in the mirror was a pitiful sight. Dark hair, matted with blood, her face pale as the ghost of Christmas past.
An urgent need to work on the door surged through her, but the strength needed to climb the stairs just wasn’t there. She must find a way out before her captor returned. If not, perhaps she could convince him Matt Foley knew who he was and had the entire Twin Falls Police force on his trail. Trouble was, she’d never been a convincing liar.
Her head pounded and the dizziness returned, along with a rolling stomach, signaling she had a concussion. Weakness forced her to lie down again and pull the covers close. If she could get warm and rest, she would feel better.
She closed her eyes. Unbidden, she fell asleep.
Sometime later, she awoke to a blast of thunder that accompanied the drip of water. A sound outside, above the tempest, erased her concerns about the water. Over the storm, the distinctive crunch of gravel drifted into the cellar. Footsteps moved closer.
Her nemesis had returned.
CHAPTER 27
Twin Falls Police Station
Matt’s stomach growled. Too busy to stop for Sunday lunch, he wished he’d taken Davis up on the offer to bring him a sandwich at noon. He grabbed the phone and dialed Joe Wilson’s number, tapping his pen on the desk while he waited for his friend to answer.
When Joe picked up, Matt didn’t bother with formalities. “How about joining me for an early dinner?”
Slight pause. “Sure. Where?”
Matt clutched the telephone under his chin while he adjusted his shoulder holster, and pulled on his jacket. “Meet me at the Steak Out in twenty minutes.”
“I’m on my way.”
Steak Out Restaurant
Matt arrived at the restaurant before Joe. The Steak Out was one of the oldest restaurants in Twin Falls, supposedly opened by an ex-cop. It was the place to come when he wanted a great steak. They didn’t serve anything else. Just prime beef, potatoes,
a salad bar, and two kinds of pie, apple and cherry. Simple and reasonable. There were only a few customers scattered around the room. The evening crowd hadn’t arrived yet. He commandeered a quiet table in the smoking section in back. His friend liked a cigar after dinner.
Joseph Dawson Wilson had been one grade ahead of Matt in school. An old soul, born mature and wise. He’d taken Matt under his wing after Matt’s family was murdered, tried to protect him from his abusive uncle. More times than he could count, Matt had gone home with Joe after school, sleeping over many nights.
As a skinny kid, with a big nose and ears before he’d grown into them, Matt’s classmates would have made his life unbearable, had it not been for Joe.
When Matt joined the Army, he’d gone to the Federal Building in downtown Dallas to be sworn in. Alone, in a crowd of recruits surrounded by family there to see their sons and daughters off, he felt a little sorry for himself. Trying to read the book he’d brought along, he glanced up to see Joe smiling down at him. “Mind a little company, kid?” Joe stayed by his side until Matt got on the bus.
His friend stepped into the breach again after Mary’s death, moving into Matt’s home to keep him from being alone. Made sure Matt ate, showered, shaved, and when he was able, sent him off to work. Joe had put his life on hold for six months, until he knew Matt could handle the grief. He owed Joe Wilson more than he could ever repay.
Matt waved at Joe when he entered the restaurant. His long strides brought him quickly to the table. He slid into a chair and glanced across the table at Matt. “You’re buying, of course.”
Matt grinned. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect you to release the tight grip you have on the first dollar you ever earned. However, it’s going to cost you in another way.”
“I knew there had to be a catch when you called.” Joe placed the single-sheet menu the waitress handed him on the table. “So what do you need?”
“We’ll discuss it after we eat.”
They placed their orders and Joe leaned back in the chair. “How are you doing? I know this is a bad time of the year for you.”
Matt shrugged. “This year’s better than last.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
Matt fingered the coaster under his tea glass. “Better. I sleep most nights. The job keeps me busy. I’m getting there.”
Joe nodded, satisfied. He glanced over Matt’s shoulder and muttered. “Uh oh.”
Matt leaned forward. “What?”
Before Joe could answer, Terrance Hall stood beside their table. He planted his feet wide, his arms crossed. “Robert Cook.”
“What about him?” Matt asked.
The councilman wore a satisfied smirk. “You missed it, Foley. He killed the Pryor girl and Josh Bradford. And you never had a clue.”
“I wouldn’t spread that rumor too broadly, Terry. At the moment, all we have is circumstantial evidence. If your theory proves wrong, you’ll lose face with your media cronies.”
“Finding the hit-and-run vehicle on Cook’s property isn’t proof? The fact Cook was custodian at the place where he buried the girl isn’t conclusive? What do you want, bloody footprints leading to his front door?”
Restaurant patrons had begun to notice the confrontation. Conversations stopped.
“All circumstantial, Terry,” Matt said calmly. “You keep riding that dead horse and you could wind up with egg on your face.”
Hall’s hazel eyes narrowed, and some of his bravado slipped away. The doubtful expression lasted only a moment. “Don’t try to bluff an old card shark, Foley. Who else could it be?”
“What about I’m-not-going-to-discuss-police-business-with-you, don’t you understand?”
“Maybe you’ll have to explain your actions to the governor.” Having issued his exit line, Hall marched to his table and for the first time, Matt noticed Hall’s dinner companions. Pepper Parker and Harold Golden. Nothing positive could possibly come from a gathering of the Matt Foley Fan Club.
Joe stared at the trio and shook his head. “Do you think Hall was born a jerk, or is it a learned behavior?”
The councilman was like an annoying fly that kept coming back no matter how many times he’d been swatted. “Both.”
“Is he right?”
“I don’t think so,” Matt said. “At the time, we didn’t consider Cook a suspect in Bradford’s murder. No reason to. The murder vehicle wasn’t registered to him, and we had no motive or grounds for a search warrant. Now we know he was connected to the murder vehicle and to the retreat, he’s certainly high on our list of suspects. But other evidence points to Cook as a witness, rather than Penny’s killer.”
The waiter brought their food and they lapsed into small talk. Joe made short order of the steak and pushed his plate back. “Okay, so what’s up?”
“I’d like you to go with me to the Cook place tonight to look around.”
“I assume you have a good reason.” Joe pulled a cigar from his pocket. He offered one to Matt who declined. “You know your people came back with a warrant and took everything that wasn’t nailed down.”
“I’m on a scouting expedition,” Matt said. “Probably nothing there, but I want to look around. Do you guys have it taped off?”
Joe lit the expensive cigar then took a couple of puffs to make sure it was burning. “Yep. Only because I haven’t gotten around to removing it and notifying the nephew he can take possession. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”
Matt didn’t have a clue what he hoped to find. “I’m just following a cop-hunch. It could be the mother of all wild goose chases. Do you have flashlights with you? It will be dark by the time we get there.”
Joe laughed. “I don’t know about you city cops, but the sheriff’s office is always prepared for emergencies.”
Matt chuckled, reached into his money clip, and placed three bills on the tray.
Outside, the heavens displayed a fantastic light show. Joe shot Matt a questioning look. “You sure you want to do this tonight?”
“Don’t worry, Wilson. You won’t melt.”
“That’s not what the girls tell me.” Joe slapped Matt’s back and walked towards the county SUV. “Let’s take mine. I’ll bring you back to pick up your car when we’re finished.”
Robert Cook’s Place
They drove west as the last glimmer of light faded on the horizon. Joe talked fishing on the trip out, the major passion of his life. He spent most of his off-duty time on the lake or on one of the off-track rivers nearby. His hobby yielded a ton of fish. An invitation to Joe’s annual Labor Day fish fry ranked right up there with Super Bowl tickets.
A full-fledged thunderstorm raged as Joe swung the county vehicle into the circular, gravel driveway. Somewhere in the distance, a tinny sound sneaked through the roar of the storm.
Nature flaunted her power through the heavy downpour, with lightning flashes, and rolls of thunder that reverberated the ground under their feet. The rain slowed a little, and they made a mad dash for the house, stopping to step over the yellow tape.
Joe sent him a disgruntled glance as they reached the covered porch. “Only for you, pal, would I come out on a night like this.”
“I know. I owe you, big time.”
“Don’t you forget it. Because I won’t.”
Once inside the house, Joe flipped the light switch. Brightness filled the room. “Well, well, well. The utilities are still on. Wonder if the nephew plans on moving in when we release the property.”
Matt extinguished the flashlight and let his gaze sweep the room. The place was almost empty. Joe took one side of the room, Matt took the other.
“Okay,” Joe said. “What am I looking for?”
“A written confession to Penny Pryor’s murder would be nice.”
Joe scowled at him. “Besides that.”
“You’ll know it when you see it. Or not.”
Opening drawers in a nearby desk, Matt found them empty. McCulloch had packed up everything but the dirty di
shes in the kitchen sink.
For now, Matt wanted to see if anything obvious stood out, maybe take a look in the shed where the Mustang had been stored.
After a quick look over the premises, he had to write off the search as a wasted effort. At least he’d tried. He wasn’t good at waiting in his office for something to break. Not when Sara’s whereabouts were uncertain.
Joe sifted through a few old newspapers on the coffee table. “Doesn’t look like there’s much to see.”
“I had just come to that conclusion,” Matt said.
Joe switched off the interior lights and opened the back door, letting the beam of his flashlight sweep over the yard.
Matt stood behind Joe as the light illuminated an old car and the vent of what appeared to be a storm cellar.
Joe shut the door.
“Wait a minute, Joe. Is that a radio? Where’s it coming from?”
Joe swung the door open again. “Sounds like it’s coming from the storm cellar, but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Let’s check it out.” Matt stepped around the rain puddles, moving towards the cellar, Joe behind him. The sounds became louder with each step.
Someone had jammed a crowbar through the metal rings on the door and lintel.
Reflex action made Matt remove his gun. He glanced behind him to see that Joe had done the same.
Matt slid the crowbar out with one hand and yanked the door back with the other. Rusting hinges screamed in protest. Matt took cover beside the door and raised his weapon. He peeked around the doorframe. Inside, a candle glowed in the darkness.
“Police, we’re coming in,” Matt yelled.
He descended the steps, aware he made a perfect target for anyone inside. Noise from the radio filled the small space as he reached ground level.
He stepped onto the floor, and the beam of Joe’s flashlight swept across the cellar, then stopped.