“I don’t!” Anna retorted, backing away.
“Hey!” Lindsay said. Her raised voice sliced through the volley of accusations. “Cool it.” The argument skidded to an abrupt halt. Lindsay continued, “Drew isn’t ‘mine’. I admit that he’s nice. I admit that he’s smart. And we’ve previously established that he is a 60s-era, pre-NRA Charlton Heston. But one thing that he’s not is ‘mine’. We went on one date, which was awkward. We’ve had several awkward conversations. I feel like an idiot every time I talk to him. I think I’ve been attributing all that awkwardness to sexual tension or nerves, but when I really think about it, he and I just don’t have much to say to each other.” She sighed deeply. “If the horse is dead, you have to take off your saddle and quit trying to ride, you know?”
Silence descended over the group. Anna and Rob seemed taken aback by Lindsay’s calm, resolute tone. “Are you sure this isn’t just another case of your chronic relationship-phobia?” Rob asked.
“Positive. The horse is dead.”
Anna cleared her throat and looked at her shoes. “In that case,” she said, “is it okay with you if I take up Drew’s reins?”
“I knew you liked him!” Rob cried triumphantly.
“Mount up, cowgirl. He’s all yours,” Lindsay replied.
Now that it was clear that Lindsay was in no longer in danger of betrayal or heartbreak, Rob’s impish streak reemerged. “That’s it?” he asked. “No catfight? Come on, Linds. Smack her. Pull her hair.”
“Sorry, Rob,” Lindsay said.
Rob frowned. “I need to find some more interesting friends.”
“Are all the shootings and poisonings happening around here not enough to keep you occupied?” Anna said.
“Shooting! Excellent idea. You two could duel, and whoever comes out alive wins Drew!” Rob said hopefully.
##
After leaving Anna and Rob, Lindsay realized that she would have to decide quickly whether to hunker down in the hospital or ride the storm out at her house. Outside, gigantic raindrops danced sideways in the gale-force wind gusts. Soon, any kind of travel would become very difficult. Lindsay weighed her options. Geneva was on call overnight and would be sleeping in the chaplains’ room. Lindsay could usually find an empty bed somewhere in the hospital to sleep, but with the storm raging and the hospital filled with on-call staff, peace and quiet would be hard to come by. She decided to brave the storm and head home.
At the front door of the hospital, Lindsay was confronted by sheets of rain. The outer bands of the hurricane had begun their full frontal assault on central North Carolina. Lindsay had a tiny folding umbrella in her purse, but recognized that it would be futile to try to keep such weather at bay with a flimsy piece of cloth and metal. She took a deep breath and sprint-hobbled toward the parking lot where Jonah’s Buick was parked. She unlocked the door and dove inside. The warm air inside the car combined with the dampness in her clothes and hair and instantly covered the car windows in a layer of thick white steam. The car smelled like her father—Old Spice and freshly cut grass. As she put the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot, she wondered if she should go to Jonah’s instead of going home. She drove through town slowly, weighing her options. Was there really anything that she could do to help Jonah? He seemed determined to be “fair” to Sarabelle—even if that meant alienating Lindsay, risking his reputation, and possibly endangering his own life. Did he deserve Lindsay’s help? Did he even want it? Given the weather, it was entirely possible that Sarabelle and Swoopes wouldn’t show up at all.
Lindsay arrived at a crossroads at the edge of town. In one direction was Jonah’s subdivision. In the other, her own house. She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. It pulled slightly to the right—the direction of her house. She decided to follow this impromptu Ouija board-style omen and head home. Her father and Sarabelle would have to sort things out between themselves, by themselves, once and for all.
Chapter 49
Lindsay drove clear of Mount Moriah: past the empty parking lot of the new Walmart, past the shuttered shoelace factory, and past the former filling station that now housed John Johnson’s Antiques, Memorabilia, and Beanie Baby Emporium. John Johnson’s was the only thing that appeared to remain open for business, defying both logic and the approaching hurricane. Ever-larger gaps opened between ever-smaller clusters of houses. She guided the Buick along the winding two-lane road, grateful that the familiarity of the route so far compensated for the hazardous weather conditions. Rain enveloped the car with each fresh gust of wind. Lindsay eased off the gas pedal as she approached another curve. When she resumed pressure to the accelerator, there was no response from the engine. The car rapidly lost speed. She pressed her foot down more firmly, but the car continued its deceleration. Hoping to discover the source of the car’s sudden malfunction, she glanced at the instrument console. Her heart sank. The fuel gauge had dipped into the barren no man’s land below E.
Lindsay glided the car to rest beneath a broad-shouldered magnolia alongside the road, hoping the tree would provide a modicum of shelter against the storm. She put the gear in Park and pulled the key out of the ignition. The muffled sounds and indistinct green and gray landscape that had flashed past as she drove now became discrete. Each rain-drenched tree, heavy cloud, and booming bellow of the storm could be sensed with stark clarity. Lindsay began to laugh, hysterically, uncontrollably, with tears running down her cheeks. She hadn’t checked the fuel gauge at all since she had commandeered the car that morning. Over the years, Jonah had chastised her countless times for leaving her gas tank running on fumes. By contrast, he always refueled his as soon as the gauge dipped below half a tank. This time, though, when Lindsay was blindly relying on his unfailing dependability, he had let the fuel run low.
She wiped her wet cheeks and fished her phone out from the bottom of her purse. Plenty of charge in the battery for once. She opened her wallet and pulled out her AAA membership—a gift from Jonah a few Christmases ago. If his momentary inattention had helped her get stranded, at least his over-protectiveness could help her get un-stranded. She dialed the number, and after several minutes on hold, was connected with a customer service representative. With a harried apology, the rep informed Lindsay that because of the tremendous volume of storm accidents and breakdowns, it would be at least three hours before roadside assistance would reach her. Lindsay sighed helplessly and hung up the phone. Her options were becoming increasingly limited. She couldn’t call Jonah. Even if he was willing to come, there’s no way he could ride through the storm on his motorcycle. Rob and John were busy with Joe at the hospital, and Anna had been talked into staying on call in the ER. She tried Warren’s cell phone—he was definitely someone who owed her a favor—but her call went straight to his voicemail. Warren’s recorded voice directed her to “call the New Albany police, or, for queries relating to the Young investigation, contact FBI Special Agent Valentine Fleet at (202) 542-9...” Lindsay hung up without even listening to the rest of the message. Valentine. That explained a few things. The minutes ticked by, stacking into tens and dozens. She tried Warren again, but again his voicemail picked up. She tried AAA again, only to be told that she could now expect a four-hour wait. Oceans of rain cascaded down the windows of the car, giving Lindsay the eerie sensation of being trapped in a marooned submarine at the bottom of the sea.
At last, the blazing, white headlights of an approaching pickup truck cut through the dreary landscape. Lindsay grabbed her bright red umbrella from the backseat. She hopped out of the Buick and stood on the shoulder of the road, waving the open umbrella frantically to signal the passing driver. The truck was now within a few hundred yards of her. She was sure the driver could see her at this distance, and she was sure that they would have to slow down significantly approaching the steep curve in the road. The driver did slow down; however, there were no signs of stopping. Lindsay stepped determinedly into the road in the path of the approaching truck. This could be her only chance to h
itch a ride, and she wasn’t going to let it go by without a fight. The driver would either have to stop or to swerve past her.
As the distance between Lindsay and the driver narrowed, the driver’s features came into clear focus. Lindsay was surprised to make out the familiar, ruddy face of Keith Bullard. Keith’s expression, too, revealed surprise. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the road a few yards shy of where she stood. Lindsay ran over to the driver’s side of Keith’s extended cab pickup truck. Keith rolled down his window.
“Boy, am I glad to see you!” Lindsay exclaimed.
“What on earth are you doing out here on a day like this? This rain is liable to drown you where you stand!” Keith shook his head. “And what are you doing running out in front of my truck? You got a death wish or something?”
“Desperate measures were called for. I’ve already been out here for an hour and you’re the only car I’ve seen. Can you give me a ride back to my house? It’s not far.”
“Yeah, okay. Hop in.”
Lindsay returned to her car, retrieved her purse, and locked the car doors. The abandoned Buick looked forlorn, and Lindsay felt an odd pang of guilt leaving it alone on the roadside. By the time she hoisted herself into the cab of Keith’s truck, she was soaked to the skin. “Sorry about bringing the storm into your car along with me.” Lindsay pushed aside some stray curls that the rain had plastered to her face. She turned toward Keith and noticed that he was also drenched. Spatters of reddish clay mud clung to shirt and pants. “Guess I’m not the only one who got a good dunking out there.”
“Oh yeah,” Keith looked down at his muddy clothes with slight embarrassment. “Only takes a minute out there.”
“I hate to take you out of your way when you’re already doing me such a huge favor, but I’m afraid my house is in the other direction from where you were headed. It’s out by the old Richards Homestead,” Lindsay said.
“It’s no problem, really.” Keith turned the big truck around, executing a three-point turn in the middle of the empty road.
It occurred to Lindsay that Keith was coming from the opposite direction of Bullard’s Barbecue. “Where are you coming from, anyway?” she asked. “I thought you were given your marching orders to head out to the restaurant. Don’t tell me that you have the gumption to defy Versa Bullard’s direct command?” Lindsay teased playfully.
Keith’s response was petulant. “The guys who work for us ain’t little kids. They don’t need their hands held. I called and told them to shut, and I’m sure as Shinola they’ll be all right by themselves.”
Lindsay was taken aback by Keith’s sudden burst of temper. He sat there glowering and staring at the road ahead. Lindsay shivered as the frigid blast from the truck’s air conditioner chilled her wet clothes and hair. As they turned into Lindsay’s neighborhood, the wind outside blew so ferociously that the massive truck shimmied slightly to one side of the road. A crack like a gunshot blasted through the din of the storm. There was a flash of black, like an enormous bird of prey swooping down from above, and then the broken top of a pine tree speared the ground on their right. Keith braked and jerked the wheel violently to the left to avoid the falling branches. Lindsay steadied herself with both hands on the dashboard. Empty soda cans and balled-up fast food wrappers rolled out from under Lindsay’s seat, engulfing her feet in the detritus that dwells in the forgotten spaces of cars.
“God bless America! That was close!” Keith exclaimed.
“I’ll say,” Lindsay agreed. A piece of hard metal protruded from under the seat and pressed uncomfortably against her Achilles tendon. She tried to push it back with her feet, but couldn’t shift it. The truck pulled into Lindsay’s driveway with the familiar sound of gravel crunching under tires. Her little white house perched comfortingly on its lot. Her electric blue Toyota Tercel stood in the driveway like an old friend. “Well, here you are,” Keith said. “Home sweet home,”
“I can’t thank you enough for driving me. I owe you big time.” Lindsay gathered her things. Her red umbrella had fallen to the floor during their near-collision with the pine tree, and she bent over in her seat to retrieve it. She caught a glimpse of the object that had been pressing against her heel. She could only make out a small part what appeared to be a piece of pipe. It was wrapped in a wet sheet, speckled with the same mud that covered Keith’s clothes. She pushed it back under the seat and straightened up again.
The chill that made her tremble earlier now took hold of her entire body. With sudden, sickening clarity, she realized that she had not given Keith directions to her house. But somehow he had known exactly where it was.
Chapter 50
Lindsay glanced over at Keith, who continued to gaze straight ahead. His hands remained tightly gripped on the steering wheel. Every synapse in her brain seemed to sizzle and fry with new realizations. Keith knew where she lived. He had clearly been to her house before. He must have been following Joe that day, trying to silence him, trying to cover his tracks. Lindsay was certain now that the object she had felt under the seat was a gun. Was it the gun that he used to shoot Joe? The same gun he used to kill Vernon? She tried to breathe, but the inside of the truck was suddenly as devoid of air as the surface of the moon. She managed to squeak out a quick, “Goodbye,” and with shaking hands, opened the door. She lowered herself out into the storm and slammed the door of the pickup truck behind her, too forcefully. Had Keith noticed her behavior? Had he caught a glimpse of her terrified face?
Lindsay walked with slow, measured steps. Or should she run? Perhaps that would seem more natural—to run through the storm toward the shelter of her house? No, walking was better. Lindsay thought she could feel Keith’s gaze searing through the pouring rain, judging her every movement, burning a hole in the back of her neck. She took a few more steps. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed anything. Perhaps this feeling of intense scrutiny was her imagination. Her thin hopes of an easy escape were soon dashed, however, as she realized that Keith’s truck was no longer running. He had cut the engine. Lindsay froze. He was going to come after her. He knew. If she ran into her house, it would provide no sanctuary. Keith could break a window and be inside in a matter of moments. Or he could use the gun to shoot her through one of the large windows that were in every single room. She wouldn’t even have time to call the police. There were no close neighbors to run to. No one would even hear the gunshot. No one would even hear her scream.
Through the low howl of the wind, Lindsay heard the creak of Keith’s truck door opening. The combination of noises was like the sound reel from some dreadful B-movie—the rising lid of Dracula’s coffin in a storm-ravaged, cliff-top castle. There was a crunch of boots on gravel as Keith jumped out of his truck. For Lindsay, the sound was like a starting pistol. She began to run, for the first time in days feeling no pain from her injured knee. She fished her keys out of her purse as she went, never losing speed. When she drew level with her car, she darted sideways, throwing open the unlocked door and diving inside. She thrust the key into the ignition, and praised God, Jesus, and the Toyota Motor Corporation as the engine roared instantly to life. In the rearview mirror, she could see Keith running toward her, his face a mask of fear and rage. She slammed her foot on the accelerator and threw the car into reverse. Keith could only pound on the side of the car as she gunned it past him. When she reached the road, she shifted into drive and again slammed on the accelerator. Her purse was lying on the seat next to her. Struggling to maintain control of the car as she reached inside, she located her cell phone. She pulled it out, dialed 911. She counted six rings. Then seven. Finally, a recorded voice soothingly intoned, “Do not hang up. You have reached the 911 Emergency Services line. Due to the storm, all of our operators are handling other calls at this time. If you need emergency fire, police, or medical attention, please hold and a dispatcher will answer your call. Do not hang up…”
The headlights of Keith’s truck appeared in her rearview mirror. Lindsay hung up. She dialed Warren’s number. When i
t again went to voicemail, she groaned in frustration. But then she remembered that the message contained information that might help her. She listened to the whole message, and when Warren recited Fleet’s cell phone number, she committed it to memory. She hung up and dialed Fleet. He answered on the first ring.
“Agent Fleet. This is Lindsay Harding. Listen to me very carefully.” Lindsay outlined the situation for him as clearly and succinctly as she could. To her surprise, he did not seem the least bit skeptical of her story. All of his usual macho posturing was absent.
Fleet asked a few questions to clarify her location and then said, “Drive into Mount Moriah. Drive straight to the police station. We’ll be waiting for you there.”
“No.” The word hung there, heavy and defiant.
“Did you not understand me?” Fleet asked incredulously.
“I understood you. But I am not going to do that. The police station is right smack in the busiest part of town. It’s right next to people’s houses. It shares a parking lot with an old folks’ home, for heaven’s sake.”
“Exactly. It is a populated area. You’ll be safer there.”
“I know for a fact that Keith Bullard has a gun in that truck with him, and he has demonstrated on more than one occasion that he will use it against anyone who gets in his way. If he follows me into the center of town, there’s no telling who he might hurt.”
“And if you don’t get here as soon as possible, chances are excellent that the person he’s going to hurt is you.”
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 24