Philip wrote down the physical description as the waitress remembered it.
“Anything else?”
“Not really,” the waitress said. “Once she arrived, they didn’t stay much longer.”
"Call if you think of anything," Dave pulled out a card and gave it to her.
Allan Tuttle met a woman at the airport and left with her. To her place, to a motel under her name, to a dark alley. They had no answers. At least they were on the right track. He was a womanizer. He was a drunk. They only needed to find out who this woman was and how to get in touch with her.
"You know," Philip said. "The woman the waitress described could almost be Mrs. Tuttle."
"I noticed that, too," Dave said. "Apparently, he had a type. We should have airport security pull surveillance tapes. Maybe we can . . ."
Dave’s cell rang and he checked the number. It was dispatch. The short, bald, pudgy man wanted to talk.
“What you got?” Dave answered.
“Your widow in the Tuttle case had a visitor today,” the man said.
Dave hated talking to the man because he was so slow with details. It was amazing a man in a position to pass on information could be so incompetent at it. “Who visited her?”
“Claimed to be her husband.”
“What?”
“She called the station saying a man stopped by her house claiming to be her husband. Said the guy told her he was going to the police to have them force her to let him in the house. And he did.” The man stopped talking, waiting for a response from Dave.
“He did what?”
“He came to the station,” the man said. “Can you believe that? The nut came to the station claiming to be her dead husband. We didn’t have anything to hold him on so we ran him out and told him to leave her alone. Thought you might want to know.”
“Thanks,” Dave said, disconnecting the call. He looked at his partner in disbelief.
“What’s up?”
“We may have a suspect,” Dave said. He repeated everything to Philip and they agreed it was time to visit Mrs. Tuttle again. Then they would track down the mystery visitor and see what his story was. Dave had seen a lot of strange things in his years as a homicide detective. Having a guy go to a widow’s home and claim to be her dead husband was a new one. It took a lot of nerve, or a serious mental condition; either way the man was probably dangerous.
Chapter 16
(The Long Walk)
Allan walked, or rather stumbled, for hours before the sun dipped below the horizon. He was favoring his left leg as the blisters on that foot seemed to be multiplying at an alarming rate. As the sun finally sank out of sight and the night sky filled with stars he began looking for a place to sleep. He wanted desperately to curl up in his bed, but any bed would do. Without money, he knew it wasn’t going to be possible. He was going to have to sleep outside.
Allan considered alleys versus bushes, rats versus squirrels. The very thought of rats sent a chill down his spine. But then, squirrels were just rats with bushy tails, though he had never read anything about people being eaten by the tree creatures. He walked to the local library, one of his favorite places, with its lush landscape and thick bushes surrounding the building. He walked around until he found a dry space, next to the foundation. Collecting leaves, Allan tried to make a bed of sorts, but an efficient groundskeeper left him little to work with. Lying in the fetal position, he closed his eyes and tried to think of anything besides what might crawl over him in the night. Luckily exhaustion took over and he slipped into a deep sleep within minutes.
Allan woke abruptly the next morning to a sputtering sound. Seconds later the sprinkler system burst to life. He sprang to his feet, fought his way through the low branches of the bushes and ran. By the time he got out of their range he was drenched head to toe. It was an awful start to what promised to be an awful day. No money. Nothing to eat. His lips were chapped from exposure to the sun and lack of water. Not to mention the thirty some odd mile trek he was facing just to get back to the cabin. It would take most of the day unless he could catch another ride, something he wasn’t sure he would risk a third time.
A stiff back and neck adding a slight slouch to his already limp-impaired pace. Head down, he concentrated on the mud-caked shoes that held his blistered feet. The slacks, from his favorite suit, were wrinkled, dirty and torn; ruined. His once, stark white shirt was worse. The few cars that passed him steered wide. Even if he did want to chance another ride with a stranger, no one would stop for him; not without a shower and change of clothes.
Unable to go home, he followed the roads that would take him back to the cabin. Having only journeyed from place to place in cabs or with Sarah behind the wheel, he did not know the streets as well as he thought. He stumbled along for several hours, backtracking occasionally as he tried to find a familiar landmark. It was well past noon before he located the road he knew would lead him out of town.
Cars drove by as if he weren’t there. Allan longed for someone to stop and offer him a lift. He kept his head down and continued his painstakingly slow advancement. Weak from hunger and thirst, he struggled to maintain his footing. At one point, a horn blasted in his ears and he stumbled forward trying unsuccessfully to maintain his balance. A group of teens leaned out their windows shouting and laughing as they sped away.
Allan’s right knee absorbed the majority of the impact when he struck the pavement. He crumpled in a heap and lay there for a moment before pushing himself off the ground again. A previously small hole in his slacks was now a six-inch tear. He started walking again, each passing car a cause for concern. As vehicles with roaring engines rushed past, Allan cringed with anticipation. A number of times, he even jumped.
The aches and pains of his body threatened to take control and force him to lay down; to give up. He forced himself to ignore the pain and think about his situation; or rather formulate plans to solve his problems so he could get back to some simulation of a normal life.
Sarah was up to something. Closing their bank account, telling the police he was dead, and claiming she did not know him; these were actions that took thought, planning. He could not understand why she was doing what she was doing, or why the police were so quick to believe her. The very fact that they did believe her made his problems, as bad as they were, increasingly more difficult.
The most immediate of his problems were; food, clothing and money. The former two could be eliminated by solving the third. If he was to survive, he was going to have to come up with some money, fast. He had not looked for a job in more than twenty years. Who was going to hire a middle-aged man with no discernible skills? Especially a man looking the way Allan did? Should clothing be his first priority? If he could get to the general store, he could ask Mr. Jasper to loan him some clothes, and maybe the old man would know someone looking for help. Exactly what he could do, he wasn’t sure.
The sun blasted him as it as it arched across his path. The mud on his clothes dried and caked into hard clumps that literally scraped at his skin. He sat on a bench and pulled the dirt from his pant legs in chunks. When he was finished, he sat for a long time considering the possibility of staying there, on the bench, for the foreseeable future. Staring down at the sidewalk it occurred to him that if he were to lay on the ground, someone might call an ambulance. A hospital would feed him, give him something clean to wear, albeit a gown. The image of him walking down the highway with his backside exposed, drifted through his mind. He shuddered and forced himself to his blistered feet.
A cluster of trees came into view at the top to the next hill. The shade those trees would provide gave Allan a goal, a destination. He began to push himself, focusing on the pavement in front of him, step after step. He glanced up to check his progress, and to his amazement he hadn’t made any. If anything, the trees seemed to be moving away from him. Deciding his mind was playing tricks on him, he started a determined march toward his goal. The road dipped a bit before the climb up the hill and at th
e bottom of the dip Allan looked up again. The trees were gone.
Had they been a mirage? He stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing in heavy gasps. He had to make it. He could not let Sarah destroy everything he had worked for. It had taken years to get to where he was and he was finally ready to make the leap to the next level. The new book was his ticket. His head snapped up at a speed that caused pain to shoot down his spine. His book. Sarah always dealt with the agent. If she told his agent he was dead she would have control of his book.
He took one last deep breath and started walking with new resolve. Within a hundred yards, almost to the top of the hill, the trees came back into view. He faltered and dropped to one knee. He put every ounce of strength he had to get back to his feet and continued forward. He was going to make it. He had to make it. And he did.
Allan rested in the shade of the trees for about thirty minutes rubbing the soles of his feet. When he was convinced he was feeling as good as he was going to get, he continued his journey. Slow and steady he kept moving. He had to get to a phone. He needed to make some calls before it was too late.
Allan checked his watch. The numbers blurred and he could not make out the hands. Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped it away. He looked up at the sun as if he could tell the time by its position and the brightness burned his retinas. He squeezed his eye lids closed. When he opened them again, the blurring seemed to be worse. Still he pressed on.
A car passed and its horn screamed. Allan jumped, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He came to a rest on his side on the gray gravel shoulder of the highway. He lay motionless with small stones pressing into his face, arm and leg. A stone digging into his hip seemed particularly determined to puncture his skin. He stared forward, looking across the pavement of the highway. He blinked. The highway was still there. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. All he could see was a large tire. He contemplated what it meant.
A boot blocked his view of the tire. Allan studied the gray cowboy boot covered with scuffmarks. The toe was scuffed so badly the leather was browned. The heel was worn to the point the owner stood heavily on the outside of his foot. The boot mesmerized Allan. He wondered to whom it belonged.
“You dead?” a gruff voice came from above.
Allan lifted his head slightly. He saw the leg of a worn pair of jeans. His head dropped back to the gravel with a crunch, contemplating the man’s question.
“No?” the voice continued. “Hurt?”
Allan tried to nod, grinding the gravel into his cheek.
“Anything broken?” the voice asked.
This time Allan shook his head rolling first off of and then back onto the rocks. He stared at the boot.
“Can ya stand?”
Allan furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. He doubted he could jump to his feet. With a little help, he thought he could stand.
“Let’s see then,” the gruff voice said. The boot moved out of Allan’s vision and he was sorry to see it go. A set of large, strong hands gripped him under his arms and pulled him up. The voice was closer now. “You don’t weigh nothin’.”
Allan was being dragged backward. He looked down at his legs following him uselessly. The heels of his shoes were leaving two uniform trails in the gravel. A truck came into view and the dragging stopped. The door opened even though Allan never saw the man make a move to open it. Allan felt himself being lifted and was quickly buckled into the passenger seat. The door slammed and Allan let his head fall against the glass.
Allan heard the other door open and close, the truck shifting only slightly with the man’s weight. The engine turned over and cold air flowed over his body. It was the best feeling Allan could remember. He almost didn’t hear the man over the air-conditioning. “You need a hospital?”
Allan shook his head.
“Where to?”
Allan lifted his head and looked at the man. His voice was a harsh whisper. “General store.”
“General store?” The man said. “You sure? You look like you need a bed.”
“Need a phone,” Allan said. “And a job.”
“A job?” the man laughed. “You can’t even stand up and you want to work. I admire that. A little hard work is good for the body.”
Allan nodded and let his head fall back to the window. Just before he closed his eyes he whispered, “So hungry.”
When Allan opened his eyes he was overcome with confusion. He did not recognize his surroundings. The walls were a dark paneling, not the familiar wood of the cabin. He turned his head to look at an old lamp and brass alarm clock setting on a nightstand. Wherever he was, it was not a hospital. He scanned the rest of the room curiously. Nothing he saw looked familiar in any way.
The door to the small room opened and a plain looking middle-aged woman walked in. Allan watched her as she stepped cautiously through the room as if making a sound would trigger a devastating chain reaction. She walked to a chest of drawers and slid one of the drawers open as quietly as possible. The old wood ground on its tracks, yet she continued to try to be silent. Allan wondered who she was.
“I’m awake,” he said, softly. The woman jumped at the sound of his voice and the drawer crashed to the floor.
The door to the room opened again and a man the same age as the woman entered. He surveyed the room and turned to the woman. “How’s he gonna sleep with all that racket?”
Allan recognized the man’s voice. It belonged to the boot. The boot stopped for him on the road.
“He was awake,” she said. “I was startled when he spoke.”
“Sorry about that,” Allan apologized.
The man looked at Allan with intense eyes. Allan looked back waiting. The man stepped toward the bed, saying, “You get enough rest?”
“I think so,” Allan said with a nod.
“You feel like eating?”
“Yes,” Allan said. He hoped he didn’t sound as anxious as he was. The hollow ache in his stomach was unbearable. “Where am I?”
“You are in our home,” the man answered. “Our guest room. Didn’t know what else to do with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Allan apologized again.
“Nonsense,” the man waved his hand in the air as if shooing a fly. “Before you blacked out, you said you were hungry, needed a phone and needed a job. So, we’re going to feed you. After that you can use the phone. Then we’ll talk about that job.”
Allan's eyes widened. He wanted to thank the man, shake his hand. Unable to form the words, too weak to move, he lay in silence. The man and his wife left the room, leaving Allan to wonder what kind of job the man might talk to him about.
A short time later the door opened again and the woman peeked around the edge of the door. The scent of a fresh cooked meal greeted Allan’s nostrils and he smiled. She entered with a tray of food. The woman waited for Allan to pull himself into a sitting position before setting the tray in his lap. He looked down at the plate, piled high with meat, potatoes, vegetables and bread. It was the most wonderful sight he had ever seen.
“Thank you,” he said. She smiled brightly and excused herself.
Allan ate, savoring each bite for as long as he could before swallowing. The woman checked on him several times until he finished his meal. He thanked her again for the food. She only smiled and removed his dishes. A short time later the man returned.
“You said you needed a phone?” the man asked Allan.
“Yes,” Allan said. “I have to call my wife and my agent.”
“Agent?” the man cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “You one of them actor types?”
“An author,” Allan explained.
“That why you need a job?” the man asked. “Can’t sell your writing?”
“Sort of,” Allan said, not wanting to explain anything more to the stranger.
“And you’re calling your wife to come get you?”
“I don’t think so,” Allan said. “Just need to ask her some questions.”
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br /> “Long distance?”
“My agent is,” Allan said. “My wife, no.”
“There’s a phone in the next room,” the man said. “It's got a cord. I don't put much stock in those cordless things. You'll have to go in there to make your calls.”
“That’ll be fine,” Allan said. “Thank you for everything.”
“Yea, well,” the man said. “Just get your calls made. I’ll talk to you more after that.”
Allan stood motionless for a long time after getting to his feet. He was light headed and the room spun. Only after the spinning stopped did he walk slowly to the next room. It was a large room with over stuffed furniture and large windows providing a beautiful view of green pasture and a lake. The phone was an old rotary model, setting on the corner of a large, oak roll top desk. Allan sat in the chair and lifted the phone from its cradle. He checked for the tone and dialed his home number.
“Hello?” Sarah answered on the third ring.
“Sarah?” he said.
“Who is this?” she said.
He sighed and said, “It’s me. Allan.”
“Who are you?” she said.
“Allan,” he said. “Your husband. Allan.”
“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but you’re sick. My husband is dead. Stop calling me.”
The phone went dead and Allan held it in front of him for quite a while before dropping it onto its cradle. He didn’t know how she thought she could pull off convincing everyone he was dead. You can’t have a dead husband without a body after all. If the body walks and talks it becomes obvious it isn’t dead.
Allan did not know his agent’s phone number. He called information and asked for the Mike Bishop Agency. He wrote the number down on a note pad. Dialing the number, he felt his spirits lifting. Mike would help him, one of his prized writers. A writer who just completed a great book. Mike would be glad to help.
The phone rang for several minutes before anyone answered. The woman on the other end of the line sounded flustered. She only gave the agency name as an afterthought. Allan explained who he was and asked to speak to Mike.
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