Fugitive Father

by Jean Barrett

  “What now?” Ellie wondered, regarding the useless raft from which she had rescued her purse and Joel’s beloved puppet.

  “We walk,” Noah said. “Looks like a trail here that follows the river.”

  There were no complaints as they started along the path. They were glad to be out of the Cherokee. Even Noah admitted as much when the river became more untamed as they hiked along its edge. It was below them now, trapped between the sheer walls of a gorge that deepened as they followed the thread of the trail. Ellie shuddered when she glanced at the wild waters far below, gushing and foaming over rocks as sharp as teeth. The raft could never have survived them.

  Noah didn’t object when she finally pleaded a need to rest. He would never have suggested a stop for himself, even though she knew the ankle must be suffering by now since his limp had grown more pronounced. But she could read the relief in his eyes when they settled on a massive log.

  Joel, exhausted, dozed in his father’s arms as he cuddled the puppet. Fog continued to smoke through the scarlet and gold of the trees around them. There was an interval of silence, and then she asked Noah what she had been wondering about since boarding the raft back at the cabin.

  “I take it you have a destination in mind?”

  He nodded. “There’s some kind of small wilderness park up ahead. We should reach it in another mile or so. A footbridge crosses the river at that point. At least I hope the bridge is still there. It was an old map.”

  “And from there?”

  “The trail on the other side of the bridge winds down the mountain to an airfield in the valley.”

  “What will you do when you reach the airfield?”

  He shrugged. “Hijack a plane out of here, if I have to.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She opened her purse, extracting a wad of bills which she extended toward him. “I cashed traveler’s checks at the bank in Rosebay. There’s enough here to hire a plane to take you and Joel a safe distance away.”

  “I can’t take that money.”

  “You don’t have a choice about it. You know it’s crazy to talk about hijacking a plane. You don’t even have the gun with you anymore, thank God. Noah, be sensible. Think of Joel.”

  He smiled. It was a sad smile. “What am I going to do about you, Ellie Matheson? Every time I think I’ve got you licked, you hit me where I’m vulnerable.” He accepted the money with reluctance, thrusting it into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll find a way to send every penny back to you, just as soon as I’m able to.”

  “I know.”

  They didn’t speak about the separation that would occur when they reached the airfield. They didn’t talk of their feelings for each other and what they would lose when they came down off the mountain. Perhaps for Noah those feelings weren’t everything, as they were for her. Ellie didn’t know. Maybe she would never know. Convinced that silence was less painful, he probably wouldn’t tell her.

  All she did know for certain was that she had to bear their parting, and she worried whether she had enough courage for that

  THEY STOOD THERE on the edge of the gorge, gazing at the footbridge with glum expressions on their faces.

  “Sorry,” Noah mumbled. “The map didn’t bother to mention that this thing was a rope bridge.”

  “Are we gonna cross it, Daddy? It looks kind of scary.”

  Joel was right, Ellie thought. The rope bridge was an extremely narrow, flimsy-looking affair suspended above a sickening drop to the river over a hundred feet below. She tried to tell herself it was the fog that made them so nervous about the structure. It was so thick now that the bridge completely vanished into the stuff less than halfway across the chasm, leaving an uneasy impression that the other end of the span hung there in midair without support.

  “It must be safe,” she said, trying to feel as confident as she sounded. “Otherwise, they would have closed it off or removed it.”

  Noah nodded. “You’re right, but let’s not trust it with both of us on it at the same time. I’ll take Joel and go first. Wait until we’re on the other side before you follow us.”

  She had no argument with his plan.

  “I can walk across on my own,” Joel objected when his father lifted him into his arms. “I’m not afraid.”

  “I know you can, sport, but this time humor your old man.”

  Ellie watched him start across the bridge, one arm bearing Joel, his other hand on the stout rope that served as a rail. The stretched cables creaked under their combined weight, the flexible span bouncing and swaying as Noah progressed carefully, slowly across its sagging length.

  She watched them disappear into a bank of fog that seemed more solid than the bridge itself. The long seconds passed without a sound. The silence seemed unnatural, eerie. Were they safe yet on the other side? She suddenly felt very lonely waiting here on her end.

  Ellie was so intent, peering into the fog, trying to catch some glimpse of them where the bridge was anchored across the yawning gorge, that she failed to detect any sound or movement behind her. It was not until the muzzle of a service revolver was shoved into her back that she knew their enemy was suddenly, alarmingly there.

  “Did you think I was such a fool I wouldn’t figure out where to find you?” he growled so close to her ear that she could smell his sour breath. “I can read maps, too.”

  And those maps, she realized with a sense of despair, must eventually have directed him into the park from which the path to the bridge originated.

  “Turn around,” he commanded her roughly. “And keep your hands at your sides.”

  She pivoted slowly until she confronted Lew Ferguson’s livid face.

  “Where is he?” he demanded, nudging her with the gun.

  “He’s gone. Long ago. You’ll never find him in this fog.”

  “You’re lying. He wouldn’t abandon you. He and the kid are somewhere close by. Get out on the bridge.” She hesitated. “Do it!”

  Ellie turned and edged her way cautiously onto the lip of the bridge The detective followed close behind her, urging her forward with the revolver. She tried not to think of the frightening drop beneath them.

  “That’s far enough. We’ll do our negotiating from here.” He lifted his voice to a shout. “Rhyder, I know you’re out there and can hear me. Your girlfriend is here with me on the bridge. It’s a long way down to the river. You wanna keep her from having any accidents, you’d better come back here and give yourself up.”

  She hated Ferguson, not because he was holding her at gunpoint, but because he was cheating her of any lingering goodbye with the man she loved. She had to send Noah on his way here and now without any last glimpse of him, without so much as a tender word of parting across the gap that separated them.

  “Noah, don’t listen to him!” she cried into the void. “You have to go on thinking about Joel! You have to get him out of here! Ferguson won’t touch me! He wouldn’t dare!”

  “You think I’m just bluffing?” Lew laughed into the fog. A demented laugh. “Remember Teresa Marcos, Rhyder? Remember how she died? How you killed her? I haven’t forgotten it. I’m remembering it now.”

  There was silence again as they waited tensely on the bridge. The fog licked at them. Ellie could taste its clamminess in her mouth. She clung to the rail and prayed that Noah had already taken Joel and vanished into the woods.

  On the other side of the bridge, shrouded by thick fog, Noah stood there in an agony of indecision.

  Teresa Marcos. What did Lew Ferguson have to do with Teresa Marcos? Noah had known her years ago in his motorcycle days. A black-eyed, rebellious girl. She had begged him to teach her how to ride a cycle. And he had taught her. Safely taught her. Then she had gone out with his bike and promptly killed herself. Did Ferguson actually blame him for her death? Apparently, he did.

  What should he do? Noah frantically asked himself. If he surrendered to Ferguson, his son would be in Brett Buchanan’s hands again. And if he didn’t give himself up, he would
be risking Ellie’s life.

  Joel, standing down at his side, tugged at his hand. “Daddy, is he going to hurt Ellie?”

  His son’s frightened, urgent whisper told Noah that he had no choice. He couldn’t abandon Ellie. Joel would be all right without him. Ellie would move heaven and earth to make sure that he was safe.

  “Joel,” he instructed his son softly, “you wait right here. Ellie will come in a minute to get you.”

  Approaching the bridge, Noah called through the fog, “I’m yours, Ferguson, on one condition. You let the woman and the boy go.”

  “Done,” the detective shouted back.

  “No!” Ellie cried. “He’s crazy, Noah! He’ll execute you on the spot and say that you tried to make a break for it!”

  “Shut up!” Ferguson snarled, dragging her back off the bridge in order to permit Noah to cross the span and join them.

  She watched helplessly as his tall, sinewy figure emerged from the fog. He was sacrificing himself for her, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

  “Joel is waiting for you over there,” he told her when he arrived on their side and allowed the detective to frisk him. “Go to him, Ellie.” She hesitated. “Go,” he urged her.

  She went, because Joel had to be protected. But the boy had disobeyed his father. He was already at the center of the bridge when she joined him. She froze at the sound of Ferguson’s harsh voice, gathering Joel tightly against her side as she looked back over her shoulder.

  The detective was waving his gun in their direction, taunting Noah as the two men stood there on the brink of the gorge. “What if they died out there, Rhyder? What if they fell to their deaths, like Teresa did? How would that make you feel, huh?”

  Noah’s response was immediate and physical. Disregarding the weapon in his enemy’s hand, he launched himself at Ferguson with a savage roar. In the next second they were struggling on the perilous edge of the chasm. The gun went off, shattering the fog. Ellie screamed.

  Then there were other sounds. The screech of tires on gravel just beyond the belt of trees. The slam of doors. Shouts and running feet.

  Uniformed officers swarmed onto the scene. The police from Rosebay had arrived. Ellie didn’t care to wonder who had alerted them. The two men, neither of them injured, were separated. Ferguson was disarmed, handcuffs slapped on Noah.

  It all happened with such astonishing swiftness that she was too dismayed to move. She stood there numbly on the bridge, watching in forlorn disbelief as they led Noah away. Then, remembering her responsibility for Joel, she knelt beside him. There were silent tears streaming down his face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A cold wind blew through the streets of St. Louis, a reminder to the city that winter was on its way. The dreariness of the gray day matched Ellie’s mood as she sat facing Superintendent Ham Bolling in his office in the main police headquarters building on Clark Avenue.

  “You’re lucky, Ms. Matheson,” he informed her in the severe tone of a school principal lecturing a wayward student. “No charges are being filed against you as an accessory, though you probably deserve them for helping Rhyder. You can thank the influence of the media for that They’ve been sympathetic about you because of your conviction that the child was in danger and had to be removed.”

  He had already told her that Lew Ferguson, stripped of his badge, would face charges. At this moment Ellie was indifferent to both the detective’s situation and her own. All she cared about was helping Noah, whose future looked totally bleak.

  He had been immediately returned to St Louis where he was being held in a cell in Prisoner Processing, awaiting transportation to Boonville Prison. Prisoner Processing was here in the same building, which meant he was close by at this very moment. But she hadn’t been permitted to see or speak to him, a circumstance she found agonizing. But no matter how dismal the outlook was, she refused to give up hope.

  “Brett Buchanan,” she said, reminding the police superintendent of her primary reason for this visit as she leaned forward tensely in her chair.

  Bolling poked at his slipping glasses before shaking his head. “It’s all been thoroughly checked out, Ms. Matheson. Turns out that telephone conversation you overheard in North Carolina was completely innocent. Buchanan was in the process of buying some expensive properties, but his major funds had been tied up in short-term investments. Those investments had just paid off, freeing up large sums of money with more to come. He was independently rich before his father died, and he’s just as rich now. No motive.”

  “But his alibi on the day of the murder—”

  “Was solid then and still remains solid. He was in a business meeting in Chicago with a roomful of reputable investors who corroborate his statement. His bodyguard is equally blameless. Peaches was vacationing with his girlfriend in Florida at the time. Hotel confirms it. No, don’t say it,” he said, anticipating her next suggestion and forestalling it with an impatient wave of his hand. “Buchanan did not hire a killer. Contract killers don’t eliminate their victims with fire pokers. Face it, Ms. Matheson. Noah Rhyder murdered his father-in-law, no one else.”

  Ellie refused to believe anything of the kind. But if not Brett—and she had no choice but to accept that now—then who? Who did kill Howard Buchanan?

  “There’s still Joel,” she said desperately, “and what he witnessed from the dumbwaiter.”

  “Come on, the boy didn’t actually see or hear the killer. In any case, I doubt whether a testimony at his age would be admissible in a court of law. You’re clutching at straws, Ms. Matheson.”

  “And I’ll go on clutching at them, Superintendent,” she promised him fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove Noah innocent.”

  “Guy really got to you, didn’t he?”

  “He’s a decent, caring man. A loving father.”

  “That’s the point,” he said dryly. “He loved his son enough to kill for him.”

  “You’re wrong, but I’m not going to argue with you about it.”

  There was nothing more to be gained from their conversation. Ellie got to her feet, but Bolling stopped her.

  “Hang on a second.” He pushed a slip of paper toward her across the desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something that ought to make you very happy. It’ll let you visit Rhyder in Prisoner Processing before he’s removed to Boonville.”

  She snatched up the paper as though it were a lifeline, her eyes glowing with gratitude.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said gruffly. “His lawyer pulled some strings to arrange for it.”

  But Ellie suspected that Ham Bolling could have prevented the visit if he’d chosen to, and that he was more sympathetic than he cared to reveal.

  “What about Joel?” she asked. “I’ve been forbidden any contact with him since North Carolina.”

  “Don’t push it, Ms. Matheson. The boy is safe and well cared for. That’s all you have to know.”

  “Is he with Brett?”

  “Not yet. But I imagine once his case has been reviewed by Family Services, he’ll be returned to Buchanan.”

  Ellie wasn’t satisfied with that. In her opinion Joel was still at risk because of what the killer believed he had witnessed from the dumbwaiter. But she could see that Bolling wasn’t prepared to discuss that with her. He wanted her to leave.

  She was on her way to the elevators, eager to reach Prisoner Processing, when someone called to her. Turning around, she saw the friendly face of Terry Goldman. The heavyset woman, who had been Joel’s original caseworker, had just emerged from one of the offices along the corridor. It was no surprise to encounter her here. Understandably, Family Services had a lot of contact with the people in this building.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, Ellie,” she greeted her, with an expression of genuine compassion. “Hoping that…well, you know.”

  She liked Terry. The children under her direction had always been much more than just assignments. “I appreciate th
at, Terry. I guess you’ve heard that, after what’s happened, Family Services probably won’t be placing any more kids with me.”

  “Yeah, and I’m sorry about that. You were always so good with them. A natural.”

  “I can live with their decision. But Joel…Terry, they won’t tell me where Joel is and what’s happening to him. I’ve been sick with worry. If I could just know…”

  “I shouldn’t tell you. I shouldn’t even be discussing him with you.” She looked in both directions along the corridor, but there was no one to overhear them. “Oh, what the hell, with the kid’s welfare being that important to you, you’re entitled to know. He’s been temporarily placed with Jan McCormick and her husband.”

  Ellie was relieved. She was familiar with the McCormicks and their home. She had shared foster-care classes with them. “He’s in good hands then, and if you’re his caseworker again—”

  “Sorry, I’m not It’s Sandra O’Hara who’s responsible for Joel. I guess she feels entitled to keep his case because she’s the one who raised the alarm that morning she went to his room to check on him and discovered you’d taken him away from the estate. Except the way I understand it, it was some storekeeper out there who first called the cops. Anyway, she claims the credit for looking out for his interests, and I guess the department agrees with her.”

  “I was doing what I thought was best for Joel that morning,” Ellie said, aggravated by Sandra’s heroics. She knew perfectly well that the woman’s only interest was in impressing Brett Buchanan, and had been from the start.

  “I know, and Sandra can be…well, Sandra. I guess we shouldn’t be too hard on her. She had a rough time of it a few months back. Boyfriend trouble,” Terry said, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. “Rumor was she was having this really hot affair with a rich, older guy who spent a bundle on her. I think she expected a marriage proposal. Instead, he got tired of her and broke it off. Sandra really suffered over that. I remember someone saying she wanted to keep as busy as possible to take her mind off of it. As a matter of fact, she requested Joel’s case when it first came to us. But since her load was already full, they gave him to me. Of course, as you know, she did manage to handle him at the very end when custody was granted to his uncle. Hey, you okay? You look like someone just whacked you over the head.”